


Oh, we're splitting into partners now?  I'll go stand over here.

by somanyopentabs



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dating, First Date, Flirting, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Pining, Protectiveness, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyopentabs/pseuds/somanyopentabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Bruce get the late night munchies and make a connection.<br/>What follows from one simple interaction tends to surprise them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Night Munchies

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the title goes to the hilarious foreveralonebruce tumblr which I spent way too much time loling over.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Bruce have the late night munchies, because Bruce forgets to eat and Clint just enjoys cereal whenever he damn well pleases.

To say that Bruce Banner is not especially gifted at small talk is an understatement at best. At worst, it’s like saying that he has a small anger problem. 

He’s still pretty rattled at being tracked down in Brazil when he walks nervously into the very first meeting. The Avenger’s Initiative, they’d told him. They hadn’t told him a lot, really. Honestly, he’s surprised he’s not being escorted in with two armed guards and handcuffs, or worse, a strait jacket. Sure, he’s been vaguely debriefed on what the situation is, why they tracked him down in the first place. Knowing even that much doesn’t help shake the feeling that at any moment, SHIELD could decide he’s too much of a liability and have him taken off the team. And from that point, who knows what they’d decide to do with him? Better that he try to make the best of this team situation.

Oh, right. Team. Meaning teammates. Meaning Bruce is going to be expected to talk to these people. Even before...before the Hulk...he was never any good at social interaction. 

The next thing he notices is that the room is too warm, so he takes off his brown jacket and rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. He willfully ignores the fact that, in this form at least, he looks to be the only team member without biceps that could bench press a Volkswagen.

Bruce winces inwardly when Stark comes over to shake his hand. On a purely scientific level, Bruce knows that he’s touched worse things than Tony Stark’s hand. Well, probably.

“Dr. Banner. Your work is unparalleled. And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”

“Thanks,” he manages to say without looking directly in Tony’s eyes.

Tony’s glib little remark, however probably meant to cut tension rather than escalate it, only serves to put him further on edge. After that, Bruce spends a lot of the meeting using the high backed chair as a sort of body shield. The special ops team members likely know enough about body language to realize that Bruce is practically radiating ‘please leave me alone.’

He’s almost glad that Iron Man and Captain America spend almost the whole time having a pissing contest.

“Big man in a suit of armor. Take that away and what are you?”

“Uh, genius billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.”

Bruce isn’t quite sure who won that round, but he thinks that Stark likely enjoyed it more than the Captain did.

And it’s almost a relief when no one expects him to talk, just to pay attention. That’s just fine with Bruce; he’s great at paying attention. Although, let’s be fair, Nick Fury is pretty impossible not to pay attention to when he calls a meeting to order.

Okay, maybe Stark isn’t paying so much attention as he is glaring at Steve Rogers, but you get the point. 

Between the Captain and Stark butting heads, Thor making light-hearted comments about how he will ‘smite villains in battle’, and the Black Widow and Hawkeye exchanging glances that could very well be anything from mild irritation to some elaborate spy code made up of blinks and twitches, Bruce feels extremely out of place. Not that he had expected to feel otherwise.

At the end, the team disperses like a bunch of magnets repelling each other. 

And then they fight.

Against each other. Against Loki. Against monsters Bruce never could have imagined.

It’s terrifying, and if he didn’t spend every waking moment terrifying himself, he doubts he could have lived through it.

When the most imminent threats have been dealt with, the Avengers recuperate in Stark Tower. This means that Bruce hides in a lab that has been designated as his for the time being. He guesses that he has been given it more out of the fact that the Tower likely contains a plethora of labs, rather than the fact that Bruce needs a lab just to be able to function as a human being. Stark hasn’t talked science with him beyond things Hulk-related. It makes sense, Bruce supposes. Hulk is the one they wanted. Hulk is the one capable of bringing down an army. Bruce is just along for the ride, taking up space, though not very much of it in this form.

He thinks it’s kind of odd, too, that he’s fought alongside these people, these Avengers, and yet they still look at him so...warily. And for once, he’s not the most dangerous person in the room when they are all gathered together. Perhaps he’s still the most volatile, but not the strongest fighter by any means. Together, he doesn’t doubt that the rest of the Avengers could take him down, even without Clint’s sedative-tipped arrows. Still, he’s noticed from the security tapes that on the battlefield, they don’t seem wary. As Hulk, the change has already been wrought. But as Bruce Banner, well, he’s potential energy. Unstable, danger waiting to be unleashed.

It’s all very depressing, which is better than being infuriating, so he focuses on that. That, and science. 

And as a scientist, one would think he would remember that human bodies require nourishment to keep on living. And yet, it’s about four in the morning when Bruce finally remembers to eat. He makes his way down to the kitchen—the communal kitchen, it should be noted. 

Clint is meticulously separating the marshmallows from the bland cereal bits in his Lucky Charms when he hears someone coming down the stairs into the kitchen. Quickly, he pours un-tampered-with cereal into his bowl, sabotaging his hard work while at the same time making him appear a little more like a responsible adult. Oh, who is he kidding? He’s eating Lucky Charms at four in the morning. At least he knows it isn’t Natasha entering the room; he never would have heard her unless she deliberately announced her presence. And that didn’t happen often, as she seemed to derive some joy out of appearing soundlessly at his side whenever she wanted. That woman was a ninja.

“Oh!” says a small, nondescript voice from the doorway. Clint turns to see Bruce standing there awkwardly, in a very un-ninja-like stance. 

“Natasha should give you lessons in stealth,” Clint says, because he wasn’t in the habit of keeping thoughts to himself, once he’d gone to all the trouble of thinking them. “Hell, Natasha should give me lessons in stealth. All of us, even. I wonder why SHIELD hasn’t asked her to do that.”

“Um,” Bruce says, turning the awkwardness up to eleven. He wonders if there’s a prize for being the most inarticulate person ever.

Clint looks at Bruce, still standing in the doorway as if Clint’s aiming an arrow at his heart. Bruce shouldn’t look so nervous, he decides. Clint’s unarmed. And as much as he brags about being able to use regular household objects as lethal projectiles, the only plans he has for his spoon is to use it for cereal eating purposes. He reaches for the milk to add to his bowl, and, for the lack of anything else to say, takes a bite.

Bruce pads softly around Clint’s chair to peer into the refrigerator. 

“There’s leftover pizza,” Clint suggests helpfully. 

“Right. Thanks.”

Bruce almost disappears from the room before Clint calls out, “Hey, I don’t own the kitchen, ya know.”

“Hmm?” Bruce turns to stare at the man sitting at the kitchen counter with a spoonful of marshmallow cereal in front of his face.

“Uh, what I mean is, you don’t have to run off. Well, not unless you’ve got to get back to your lab before something explodes. Nothing’s gonna explode, is it?”

Bruce shakes his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the thin line of his mouth.

“So, take a seat. Insomniacs have to stick together. Plus, it’ll give me an alibi when Tony wants to know who ate all his cereal. You can tell him it wasn’t me.”

“Of course,” Bruce says mildly. He sits on a kitchen stool opposite Clint.

“So, listen,” Clint goes on as Bruce digs into the pizza. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “I’ve got it on good authority that Stark’s heading out to Malibu tomorrow. You wanna steal one of his cars with me?”

Clint isn’t sure why he’s inviting Bruce along to his plans of grand theft auto. But the guy doesn’t seem nearly as freaky as rumor told it, and besides, he is kind of cute in a scruffy sort of way. And, he feels bad about the wide berth the rest of the team has been giving him. If anyone knows what it’s like to be an outsider, it’s Clint Barton. And Bruce Banner, apparently.

“What?”

“You know, partners in crime! It’ll be fun.”

“I thought we were supposed to be defending the general public from criminals,” Bruce says drily.

“Oh, it’s not like Tony Stark is going to miss one little car. And besides, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Bruce frowns at that. “My life is an adventure. I really don’t need to seek it out; it finds me.”

“Oh, come on. Do it for, uh, team bonding?”

“I...what?”

“Team bonding,” Clint repeats enthusiastically. All of a sudden, he really hopes he can sell Bruce on this. If only to keep him from moping as he eats pizza. Bruce should really get out more, Clint decides.

“Doesn’t the rest of the team need to be there to qualify as that?” Bruce is now hyperaware that he is being scrutinized heavily by Clint Barton. He tries to hide the blush that’s rapidly going to his face behind a slice of pizza.

“I’m part of your team,” Clint insists. “A little one-on-one, doesn’t sound too bad, does it?” He smiles what he hopes is a winning smile.

“Uh, well...” Bruce can’t seem to help finding Clint utterly charming in that moment. He really doesn’t want to say no. He also doesn’t want to get pulled over in a stolen vehicle. “Couldn’t we just ask Tony to borrow one of his cars?”

Clint facepalms. “But that would take half the fun out of it.”

“But, we could still, er, roadtrip?” Bruce hasn’t done anything ‘just for fun’ in longer than he can remember. He thinks roadtrips are something people do for fun. People who aren’t hiding from the government, that is.

“Um, you’ve got a little...” Clint stares at Bruce for a moment, then reaches out and swipes a dab of pizza sauce from the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

“Uh, thanks?” Bruce is certainly not able to hide the blushing now, he’s sure of it.

“So, yeah. Fine, you win. I’ll ask. Tomorrow evening, all right?” Clint haphazardly drops his bowl into the sink and heads out of the kitchen. “So get some sleep,” he adds, and makes his way to his own rooms.

Bruce finishes the rest of his pizza thoughtfully. He thinks he may have just had an actual conversation with another person. If he were less self-conscious, he might have high-fived himself in congratulations.


	2. Clint is Fabulous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint, you are such a show-off, don't even deny it.

The next day, Bruce faces the awkward situation of actually maybe wanting to seek out company. The chat with Clint last night was certainly...something, though he’s not quite sure what. He needs more data.

He finds Clint and Natasha in one of the common rooms, arguing.

“Stop saying that things are flawless, Clint. That barely even sounds like a word anymore.” Natasha crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a look that Bruce knows he wouldn’t argue with. Of course, he rarely argues with anyone these days. Or talks to them, which is really what this newfound desire to connect with another person is about, he supposes. Only now he just feels like he’s intruding. Clint had said evening, and it’s just after five o’ clock. Should he have waited for Clint to seek him out? Has he committed a social faux pas? 

“I can’t help it. If you were an archer, you would realize that my new bow _is_ flawless. _Flawless_ , Natasha.” Clint looks smug. He’s also sitting quite close to Natasha on the sofa. Or maybe she’s sitting close to him? Or maybe that’s just how people sit. Just because Bruce has acres of personal space he likes to keep free and clear of other life forms, doesn’t mean that everyone else does. 

Bruce has just made up his mind to pretend he was just passing through and to leave the room quietly when Clint says, “Bruce! You’ve seen my new bow in action. Tell me, is it flawless, or is it flawless?”

Bruce bites his lip before responding. He doesn’t like taking sides, even in something as low-stakes as this discussion appears to be. “Yeah, uh, I mean...you were really good. At, uh, shooting with it, I mean.”

Bruce wants to kick himself. It’s not like he knows archery jargon, or is expected to know it, but he still feels a pang at his lack of knowledge on the subject.  


“Ha!” Clint says, victoriously.

Natasha shrugs, as if to show she wasn’t that personally invested.

“So, road trip,” Clint says, snapping his fingers innocuously and still managing to startle Bruce. “You wanna tag along too, Natasha?”

Bruce doesn’t realize, but at that moment he holds his breath. One-on-one he could handle, but playing third wheel to two people who are so obviously already comfortable? He starts to think up excuses about why he can’t go.

Natasha shakes her head. “I have a meeting with Fury.” Bruce starts breathing normally again. It’s not that he doesn’t like Natasha, he’s just not sure how he would fit into that scenario.

“Your loss,” Clint says as Natasha makes to leave.

“Have a good...meeting,” Bruce says awkwardly. He really needs to get into the habit of interacting with his teammates while in his human form.

Natasha nods at him on her way out the door. It’s not unfriendly, but like Natasha, it’s all business.

“You ready?” Clint asks, lifting himself off the sofa and flexing his arms.

Bruce swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He nods and averts his eyes from Clint’s arms. The man’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans; he shouldn’t be allowed to look that good in casual clothes. Especially when Bruce is sure he looks like he’s wearing curtains in comparison. He’s not quite sure why it matters, but he has this uncomfortable and unfamiliar urge to impress Clint somehow. And he’s sure he hasn’t exactly done a bang-up job so far.

“To the Batmobile, then,” Clint says, without a thought to Bruce’s appearance. Well, not beyond thinking that he looked maybe a little more flustered than usual. But the Black Widow can have that effect on people. Clint knows he certainly was affected when they first met. Oh, they’re old pals now, and have ridiculous arguments and their little in-jokes, but not everyone is used to their methods of communication.

Clint leads the way, and when they arrive down in the garage, he can’t help letting out a sigh of appreciation at the car they’re about to drive way too fast down the highway. Okay, correction, the car _he’s_ going to drive way too fast down the highway. Good times.

“Oh, come on,” Clint whines when Bruce sits down next to him and buckles his seatbelt. “I’m a great driver.”

Bruce startles for a second, then fiddles with the seatbelt as he mutters, “Just, uh, taking precautions.”

“Fine, fine,” Clint answers, not actually offended.

The garage opens, and Clint revs the engine. 

“Actually,” he says, grinning widely at Bruce, “Maybe you were right about the seatbelt.”

He takes off, intending to fully test whether Stark’s cars really can go from zero to sixty in less than 3.5 (Stark had once ranted about not being outdone by a Rhianna song, of all things).


	3. Road Trip!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does what it says on the tin.

“Oh god oh god oh god _ohgodohgodohgod_.” Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates very hard on not hulking out and turning Stark’s probably-million-dollar car into a heap of scrap metal. Trying to reason with himself, that he’d been involved in higher adrenaline-fueled events just within the last week did no good; that had been the Hulk, not him. Not him, never him. He likes his quiet lab, his quiet, sometimes lonely, but nonetheless mostly-uninterrupted life as Doctor Bruce Banner. The man next to him seems determined to pull him out of his comfort zone. The only problem with that is that the line between his comfort zone and turning green is very, very thin.

Clint looks over at his passenger nervously. Sure, he’d been hoping for a reaction, but not like this. He doesn’t want to freak Bruce out. Not only because he doesn’t want him to hulk out off-duty, but also because he wants to show Bruce a good time. The guy really seems to need some fresh air and downtime, away from the Tower. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he reaches over to put a hand on Bruce’s tense shoulder. He gives him a friendly rub, which turns into a sort of impromptu massage as he feels the stress in Bruce’s muscles start to lessen.

Bruce tenses at first when he feels Clint’s hand on him. As a rule, he doesn’t usually let people get close enough to touch. More than that, after a few moments, it starts to calm him down. It shouldn’t be working so well, Bruce thinks. He barely knows Clint, and yet he’s practically melting under his touch. And Clint’s hands are so strong, so warm. His stress over the speed of the vehicle goes down, while another type of anxiety rises within him. It’s nothing that will mess with his heart rate, however. It’s just a dull little ache within that tells him he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he is. 

“Sorry,” Clint says finally. “Natasha says I’m too much of a show-off. Fury, too.”

“S’okay.” All Bruce can think about is the warm hand that’s still working the tension out of him. Clint has moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and it feels divine. “Not that I, um, don’t appreciate it, but you don’t have to keep doing that.” Bruce doesn’t want to say it, but he feels like he should. He doesn’t want Clint to feel awkward, or obligated, and the practical side of him says he should really have both hands on the wheel. Not that he thinks Clint always drives with two hands on the wheel anyway.

“Oh, right,” Clint says, glancing sideways at Bruce before moving his hand. He can’t help his immediate thoughts, which are that Bruce is hiding a tight body under all those baggy clothes and white lab coats. Sure, he’s not built like some of the team, but there’s lean muscle under there. He’s not wearing the lab coat today, thank god, but he’s still wearing a dress shirt and slacks, what Clint has come to think of as his standard scientist wear. Doesn’t the guy own anything more casual?

“Thanks,” Bruce says, though he doesn’t say for what. It’s a little weird to thank someone for giving him a shoulder rub to keep him from turning into a monster.

“No lab coat today, looks good on you,” Clint says, because he has no brain-to-mouth filter, and oh great, now Bruce is going to think he has intentions beyond roadtripping with a teammate. And it’s not like that at all, even if Clint can’t deny he’s feeling some attraction. Bruce is probably one hundred percent straight, and the last thing Clint wants is to make him uncomfortable. “I mean, uh, I thought that was like, your civilian disguise. You know, like Clark Kent’s glasses.”

Bruce laughs helplessly, runs a hand through his floppy hair, realizes he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands and lets them settle aimlessly in his lap. “It kind of is. When I’m in the lab, it is.”

“Yeah. But hey, man, it’s good to see you with it off,” Clint says, then realizes what he’s said and wants to smack himself. “I mean, we can’t be all business all the time. Even if we are on call 24/7. You need time to unwind.”

“Is that what this is?” Bruce says suddenly, having a horrifying thought. “I’m not your, uh, assignment, or anything, am I? Did Stark say something? Because he doesn’t have any room to talk, not really, not when he spends as much time on Iron Man as I do on my experiments, and—“

“No, no.” Clint laughs easily. He wouldn’t put it past Fury to give him an assignment like that, if he thought there was a problem, but honestly Fury has bigger issues to deal with than a scientist without a social life. Even if that scientist is prone to temper tantrums that can destroy buildings. “I just wanted some company, thought you might want some, too.”

“Oh.” Now Bruce just feels silly. Way to go, he thinks to himself. Now Clint probably thinks he’s paranoid. He kind of is, but that tends to happen when he’s spent so much time running away, not being able to trust anyone.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Clint claps a hand back on Clint’s shoulder and gives him a friendly jostle. “No pressure, okay? It’s just like I said, team bonding. It wasn’t just an excuse, okay? I like knowing my teammates. You’re just a little harder to track down than the rest of them, the Widow included. At least, I can usually find her when she’s off-mission.”

“Right. Um, you seem...close, with Natasha.” Bruce asks casually, oh-so-casually.

“Oh, yeah. Me and her, we go way back. We’ve worked with each other a long time. I wouldn’t want to be on this team without her, you know? You can always count on her.”

“She’s very professional,” Bruce agrees.

“Yeah, good ol’ Natasha,” Clint says fondly. “And now for the important question. Are you hungry?”

“Oh, um, sure.” Food has been the furthest thing on his mind today, but sure, he could eat.

“Let me guess, you forgot to eat again? Well guess what, my man. You’re in luck. I’m gonna take you to the best burger joint around. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.” Bruce bites his lip gently as Clint accelerates and turns on the radio. It’s playing Bon Jovi, and Clint unselfconsciously sings along. The dull ache in Bruce’s chest doesn’t go away, but it is joined by something lighter.


	4. Clint's milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint is rather protective of Bruce.

Tony Stark will never let Clint borrow his vehicles again if they eat in his car, so they wind up with their burgers, fries, and milkshakes (Clint got chocolate, Bruce got strawberry) outside on a park bench. It’s getting later in the day, the sun going down just beyond the trees in the horizon. 

It is a really good burger joint. Clint was right. Bruce tends to not be picky about food, but it feels good to be outdoors, sharing a good meal with a friend. At least, he thinks they’re friends. That seems to be what Clint’s angling for, and that’s good enough for Bruce. Clint is delightfully unselfconscious about everything, including dipping his fries in his shake and laughing when he sees Bruce’s reaction.

“Come on, try it.”

“I don’t think those two food items were meant to go together.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Clint says again, holding out his shake expectantly. “You’re a _scientist_. So, you know, experiment.”

Bruce begrudgingly tries one fry that way. Shockingly enough, it’s a good combination. “How does that even...?”

“See, I told you. You gotta try new things more often.”

“With you?” The words come out of Bruce’s mouth before he can stop them.

“Well, sure.” Clint grins. “As long as I don’t scare you away.”

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to laugh. “It takes more than that to scare me away, and honestly, I’m surprised that you’re not—that you’re not, uh...” He manages to stop himself before he can say it, can say out loud _surprised you’re not scared of me_ , because he doesn’t want to hear himself say it. He doesn’t want to remind himself that really, at his worst, he’s a monster, and at his best he’s a socially inept science geek who doesn’t even manage to measure up with most of his peers. Sure, his peers don’t have a big green problem hanging onto their shoulders, but that’s really his very own catch-22.

Clint’s all smiles, though, and for that, Bruce can be glad. He ignores Bruce’s little faux-pas with himself and starts telling him about some of the shenanigans he’s gotten up to on missions. Clint’s a cocky bastard, but at least he’s self-aware, and that only serves to make him even more charming. And Clint _is_ charming as he relates his tales, so animated and expressive, and using his hands for talking. Bruce soon loses interest in the rest of his meal as he sits there, completely wrapped up in the sound of Clint’s voice.

“But I guess that, er, you don’t really feel the same. About missions, I mean,” Clint says as he finishes telling Bruce about a time where he was absolutely James Bond-esque. “What I mean is, you didn’t exactly volunteer for this, huh?”

Before Bruce can make up his mind about an answer, Clint continues, “Or is that still a sore spot? Sorry, sorry, forget I said anything.”

“No, it’s okay,” Bruce says. As far as he knows, Clint has been completely open and honest with him. He wants to return the favor as much as he can, even if he doesn’t want to divulge everything at once. “You’re right, I didn’t, um, volunteer. As such. But they...did give me a choice?”

“What, Fury threaten to lock you up if you didn’t help out?”

To that, Bruce can only make a small noise in the back of his throat. It is true, after all. But Bruce hates being the voice of dissent, even if he so often is.

“Sonuvabitch,” Clint mutters, wiping his lips with a napkin. “Course, I’ve always known that about SHIELD. You wanna think the bastards are the greater good, but underneath all those forms you know it’s more like the lesser of two evils, and you gotta pick a side.”

“Is that how you really feel?” Bruce asks quietly, and on some level he only feels relieved at Clint’s reaction.

“Mostly, yeah,” Clint says, offering up a slightly bitter smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade this for the world. Doing what I do, well, there’s really not a lot of options for someone with a skill set like mine. Being on the side that protects people, what our team does—I don’t doubt that I’ve picked the right side. But no system’s perfect. Even if right now I kind of want to go down there and raise a little hell for what they did to you.”

“Oh.” Frankly, Bruce is touched by the sentiment. “You wouldn’t though, would you?”

“Depends,” Clint says, shrugging. “I don’t think it’s right, them giving you no choice about things.”

“I’ve hurt people,” Bruce blurts out suddenly, not quite knowing why. “I know—I know I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to leave Brazil. But maybe...maybe it’s for the best? At least here I can try to make amends. Like you said, we are helping people, aren’t we? I never thought I’d help anyone like this—that the Hulk could help anyone. But we are, aren’t we?”

And there it is, out in the open. Bruce’s insecurities about his place on the team, laid bare to a man he barely knows. For all he knows, this could still be a fact-finding mission. Clint could change his mind about him at any time and report back to Fury that Bruce is unfit. And then where would he be? Not out in the fresh air having a picnic, that’s for sure.

“Hell yeah, you are.” Clint’s face is rather the definition of friendliness, Bruce thinks. “Don’t doubt that for a second. I mean, man, you should have seen yourself...or, er, your other self, in action this week. And Stark’s been talking up a storm about how he wants to pick your genius brain sometime.”

“Really?” Bruce’s voice is pitched high with incredulousness. He lowers it as he says, “That is to say, he hasn’t come to me about anything.”

“Eh, that’s just Tony. Besides, I think he’s still too involved with our good Captain to focus on too much else right now.”

“They’re still fighting?”

Clint gives him a knowing look. “You could say that. But, uh, let’s just say I know Stark a little better than most. You just wait.”

Bruce wants to say ‘wait for what?’, but he doesn’t want to seem completely oblivious, so he just nods and sips the last of his milkshake.

“Better head back soon,” Clint says, casting his eyes to the horizon where the sun has almost finished setting.


	5. Mad Skills, Yo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint fails at being impressive and Bruce is kind of impressed anyway.

Clint is very seriously considering the Magic Bullet blender at five o’clock in the morning. Just thinking about all those bitchin’ smoothies he could make...hell yeah.  


Okay, that’s probably the lack of sleep taking over his brain. Smoothies, however awesome, definitely aren’t worth three easy payments of 19.95. Or the shame of owning something called a ‘Magic Bullet.’

Clint flips the channel to another infomercial and sighs. Ever since he and Bruce had come back from their little excursion, they had been battling super villains left and right. All week, all of the Avengers had been working together 23 hours a day. They’d had to grab sleep whenever they could, twenty minutes here, a half hour there. It had been insanity in the streets, non-stop pure adrenaline-fueled battles. Not that Clint hadn’t loved nearly every minute of it. He’d admit it to anyone; he’s a natural born risk-taker, thrill-seeker, back-talker...much to the consternation of his superiors, of course.

But now, here he is, totally wound up when he should be sleeping. But he’s just too plain wired. Coulson had banned him from the training room, had banned all of them, telling them to catch some sleep before they hurt themselves, or anyone else. Sure, it’s sound advice, but Clint still resents not being able to take out some of his residual energy with target practice. Oh, he’d tried sleeping, tossing and turning and punching his pillow until it resembled a squashed mushroom cap. He’d done push-ups in his room, one-handed, two-handed...it didn’t matter, he couldn’t settle down. Finally, he’d wandered out to one of the common rooms, the one they use mostly for television viewing, flopped down on the couch, and began the pathetic yet inevitable viewing of infomercials.

Not that he couldn’t have stayed in his room and put on something a little more...adult. It was Stark’s mansion, of course, so there was no shortage of options for that sort of entertainment. But Clint was restless, and irritable, and the last thing he needed to be reminded about was how frequently he was relying on his own right hand for stress relief lately. 

Not that he _needed_ to, exactly. After all, there was no real scarcity of people willing to sleep with an Avenger. Men and women alike practically threw themselves at them. Stark was probably used to it, but, while it was an ego boost at first, Clint quickly grew tired of the shallowness of the whole deal. He was used to performing for people, from way back in his days in the circus, but the last thing he wanted right now was to perform on a date. He knew he wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t need anyone getting disappointed when they found out that Hawkeye; superhero, was really just Clint Barton; regular guy who, sure, could kick ass when it came to fighting bad guys, but also has issues with a host of things including authority, commitment, and, well, insomnia.

Clint turns his attention to the man trying to sell him a Shamwow.

Down the hall, Bruce tries his access card for his laboratory for what feels like the hundredth time.

 _Access Denied_ , the screen still reads in admonishing red letters.

Bruce lets out a huff of frustration and slumps down with his back against the wall, lowering himself until he’s sitting on the floor. He lets his head fall back and thump softly.

Even at five a.m., tired out of his mind and zoned out on bad late night television options, Clint Barton’s senses still work at full capacity when he hears a noise down the hall. Not one of the villains they fought recently has been able to break into Avenger’s mansion, but that doesn’t make Clint any less apprehensive. He picks himself up off the couch and moves to investigate.

“Bruce?” Clint says, slightly startled when he finds the man sitting in the middle of the hallway with his head in his hands. “You okay?”

“Oh!” Bruce looks up, having not heard Clint’s approach. He smiles ruefully. “Coulson locked me out of my lab.”

“So, you thought you’d, what? Camp out?”

“No, I, uh—oh god, I didn’t trigger some kind of alarm, did I? Is that why you’re here?” Bruce starts to stand, and Clint offers a hand, pulling him to his feet with ease.

Clint shakes his head. “Nah, I couldn’t sleep either. I just heard a noise, wanted to make sure that, you know, no avenging was necessary at this time.”

Bruce can’t help his quiet laugh at that. Though it’s so late at night that it actually counts as early the next day, and he hasn’t slept at all, here he is, getting giddy over Clint Barton.

“It’s not an emergency, is it? You really need to be in there for something?” Clint asks.

All at once, Bruce feels distinctly embarrassed. He was only just missing his lab, really. The only thing he can do is duck his head and breathe out a barely audible ‘no’.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ve got my training room access revoked for the next 24 hours. Those fuckers,” he adds, lightly.

There’s a short silence, so Bruce says, “Yeah.” It seems like the right thing to say.

“I could break you in, if you wanted,” Clint says casually, leaning against the door frame.

“Hmm?” Bruce feels his face go a little red at that comment, but the lights are dim in the hallway, so he doesn’t think Clint notices.

“Could hack into the system, get you into your lab,” Clint goes on, oblivious to the accidental innuendo, for once. Perhaps it’s a testament to how physically exhausted he actually is.

“You could do that?” Bruce asks, and then, curious, he adds, “Why didn’t you just break into the training room, then?”

Clint shrugs. “Didn’t seem worth it to get chewed out by Coulson _and_ Fury over that. But for you? Sure, why not.”

Oh, this is bad, Clint thinks to himself. What am I doing, trying to impress this guy? Cute or not, it’s a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. Because Clint can see how his train wreck of a crush is going to turn out for him. He’ll come on too strong, like he is right now, and Bruce will either freak out or hulk out or maybe just calmly reject him, and Clint can’t decide which one of those scenarios will be most humiliating, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to find out.

“Oh, you...we shouldn’t,” Bruce says, though he is oddly flattered.

“Aw, come on. I never did like doing what I was told.” And because Clint can never leave well enough alone, he breaks the lockdown within minutes and watches for Bruce’s reaction as the door to his lab slides open.

Bruce is suitably stunned, not just that Clint has skills to match up to his bragging, but that Clint has just disobeyed direct orders for him. His admiration of his friend lasts all of a few seconds before fear sets in, and Bruce starts trembling, hugging his arms to himself. 

“Oh god, oh god, this isn’t good,” he frets, running one hand nervously through his messy curls and then fidgeting with his glasses. “They’re going to, I don’t know...but they won’t like it, and I’m going to get reprimanded and kicked off the team and—“

“Hey, hey, slow down. Slow down, there,” Clint says, reaching out and trying to calm Bruce with one hand holding onto each of his arms. He just wants Bruce to stop shaking, for god’s sake. This wasn’t his intention at all, and now he just feels terrible.

Bruce looks up at Clint with wide, fearful eyes. “You—you don’t know, you don’t have the same...status. As I do. Your—your place on the team isn’t conditional on good behavior.”

Clint wants to argue that yeah, yeah it kinda is, but really, it’s not the same at all. He should have realized. He should have thought. Clint Barton fucks something up, he gets a warning, a verbal thrashing at most. Bruce fucks up and, well, the stakes are a lot higher.

“Sorry,” Clint says, even though it’s not the right thing to say at all. Not now, at any rate. “Listen. Listen, Bruce. Nothing’s gonna happen, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll fess up to Coulson in the morning. So just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

Bruce hears the sincerity in Clint’s voice and latches onto that. Clint’s hands are strong and steady, holding him up, and furthermore, Bruce believes Clint.  


“You gonna be okay?” Clint asks, once Bruce has stopped shaking so violently. Clint can still feel a slight tremble beneath his palms, but Bruce’s body is no longer reminiscent of a tree in a storm.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so,” Bruce says, mostly meaning it.

“Guess I should probably shut the door, huh?” Clint says, hitting the button again to do so. “I really am sorry, you know.”

“It’s okay. I mean, _I’m_ sorry. For being so paranoid.”

“It’s understandable. Though I wish...man, I really wish it wasn’t the case. Whatever anyone else says, Bruce, you _are_ part of the team.”

“I’m a liability,” Bruce says weakly.

“Everyone is.” The words come to him so fast that Clint doesn’t realize how true they are until they’re out in the open like that.

Bruce just looks at him, disbelieving. Clint’s vehement reassurances do nothing to quell the sick feeling in his stomach. “Could...could we, uh, go sit somewhere? Or could I? I don’t mean to presume...”

“Yeah, let’s go sit down. And maybe I can convince you I’m not really that much of an asshole.”

“Oh, but I don’t...I don’t think that at all,” Bruce argues as Clint walks them back to the common room with one arm still slung around Bruce’s shoulder.

“You’re saying I’m not trying hard enough?” Clint asks with a grin as they settle onto the sofa, a comfortable distance apart. No, he thinks, that’s not right. I’m supposed to be making the argument that I’m _not_ an asshole.

“No. No, I, uh...I don’t know why you’re so nice to me, to be honest.” Bruce braces himself for Clint’s response.

“I gotta have a reason?”

“I just, I don’t have a lot of friends, that’s all.” Or any friends, he thinks. Except for Clint, and Bruce is pretty sure he’s just done a good job of alienating him.

“Well, you’ve got me. The rest of the team, too, if you’d ever come out of your lab in the daytime. Maybe you should get locked out more often.”

“But—I am working on some very important experiments, really, and I’m sure, I’m absolutely sure I’ll have a breakthrough sometime soon, and—“

“Hey, relax. You don’t’ have to prove all that with me. I wasn’t gonna lock you out or anything. Believe me when I say I am _through_ messing with your lab access.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Bruce says softly. He stifles a yawn.

“Mm hmm,” Clint intones. He can feel his eyelids starting to get heavy. Maybe he should just shut his eyes for a moment. He can have this conversation with his eyes closed, no problem.

Bruce is tired, really, suddenly, very tired. He should stand up, go back to his own room and lie down in his own bed.

He doesn’t.


	6. Clint accidentally a rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint and Bruce almost get a detention.

The first thing Natasha does when she walks into the common room to find Bruce and Clint sleeping on the couch, Bruce’s head in Clint’s lap, is snap a picture. The second thing she does is nudge Clint’s shoulder until he finally forces his eyes open to stare at her groggily.

“What?” He rasps, blinking hesitantly. He feels comfortable and warm and doesn’t really want to move.

“I thought I’d do you a favor and wake you up before anyone else wanders in here. And ask you whether you want any security footage deleted. You owe me, by the way.”

“Oh,” Clint says, his brain still fuzzy from sleep. He looks down to discover the source of warmth on the lower half of his body—a sleeping Bruce Banner. He looks so peaceful there, eyes squeezed shut against the daylight. Clint wants to run a hand—no, both hands—through Bruce’s unkempt morning hair.

“I’ll let you wake him up,” Natasha says wisely. She then adds, “And let me know about that security footage, if you want me to do anything about it before Tony gets to it,” and then she’s slipping out of the room without a sound.

Clint nods to himself. He deftly moves out from under Bruce, stands, and lets Bruce’s head fall softly to the couch cushion. He then kneels next to him on the couch and says softly in his ear, “Hey, Bruce. Buddy. Time to wake up.”

Bruce’s eyes open slowly, adjusting to the light in the room.

“Hey listen,” Clint whispers, calming, soothing. He doesn’t want to startle him. “It’s all right. We just fell asleep out here. No harm done, okay? Let’s just get you back to your room.”

“Oh god,” Bruce mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. He allows Clint to help him onto his feet. “What time is it?”

“Uh,” Clint says, fumbling his phone out of his pocket and glancing at it. “About ten thirty.”

“Oh. That’s—that’s not good.” Bruce adjusts his glasses, trying to get the world to come into focus. He needs more sleep. “We’ve got a meeting in half an hour.”

“Do we?” Clint’s usually pretty good at keeping track of that sort of thing, but last night and this morning are anything but the usual. “Fuck. We do. Dammit.”

“I’ve gotta go,” Bruce says, anxious and apologetic, before turning and practically sprinting off in the direction of his bedroom.

“Dammit,” Clint says again, to himself, because it feels like the most appropriate word for the situation.

Clint hurries to his own room to shower and change. Fortunately, he’s used to getting ready quickly and soon he’s striding down the hallway to the meeting room, where he intercepts a still harried-looking Bruce.

“Hey.” Clint purposely steps in front of him, blocking his way. Yeah, it’s kind of a jerk move, but he really needs to make sure Bruce is okay. The last thing he’d meant to do was let Bruce fall asleep in his lap, not that he really regrets it or anything, but he isn’t sure how Bruce is feeling about the whole thing. Clint vaguely recalls Natasha mentioning an ex-girlfriend in Banner’s files. Clint knows that straight guys can get uncomfortable over this sort of thing, knows that just because he swings both ways and sees nothing wrong with a little platonic cuddling, that the world at large tends to disagree with his views. 

“Hey,” Bruce echoes, looking down at his feet. Of course, here was Clint, likely wanting to tell him they can’t be friends anymore, as if Bruce wasn’t embarrassed enough. He’d spent the whole time showering and changing clothes beating himself up for falling asleep in the other man’s lap. How humiliating. And on top of that, he can feel a blush rising to his cheeks.

“Are we good?” Clint blurts out. Smooth, real smooth, buddy, he tells himself.

“Huh?” Bruce lets his eyes flicker up briefly to take in the beseeching look Clint is giving him.

“I just...I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Okay?”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” Bruce says quickly. Oh, Clint makes him feel any number of things. Nervous, happy, awkward, smitten. But not uncomfortable. Never that.

“Good to hear it,” Clint says, fighting the urge to ruffle Bruce’s hair. He settles for clapping a hand on his shoulder instead.

“We’re going to be late,” Bruce mentions softly, because there happens to be an archer built like a brick wall standing in front of him, one strong arm basically pinning him in place. Not that he minds as such. Just, well, he likes to be punctual.

“Right.”

After the meeting, Coulson asks Banner to stay behind, like a teacher asking a student to stay after class. Bruce feels just as wary as a student, sweating and anxious, his glasses slipping to the edge of his nose so he has to push them back up again.

There’s a thumping sound at his right, and Bruce looks up to see Clint, sitting on the edge of the meeting table a couple feet from him.

“Told you I’d stick around,” Clint explains to him, shrugging.

When Coulson finally comes over and takes in the sight, he rolls his eyes. “I believe you were dismissed, Barton.”

“Yeah, but you know how much I love these meetings, sir.” Clint grins at Coulson, just to be obnoxious.

Coulson, unruffled, decides to get on with business as per usual, and faces Banner. “Dr. Banner, last night there was a—yes, Barton?”

Clint has his hand up in the air, waving frantically like an annoying classmate, like they are actually in class, or maybe the principal’s office, as a better analogy.

“That was me, sir. All my fault.” Clint always calls Coulson ‘sir,’ along with Steve and Natasha, more to do with training than actual discipline on Clint’s part. Tony doesn’t call anyone ‘sir,’ because he’s Tony. Thor doesn’t have the requisite background to understand those types of honorifics, and still sometimes accidentally calls him ‘Son of Coul.’ Bruce tends to not call Coulson anything, and instead gets by on a system of softly answering questions directed at him and nodding. Clint thinks it’s adorable.

Coulson narrows his eyes at the archer, who is still casually sitting on the table. “Would you mind taking a seat, Barton? In a chair, preferably.”

Clint shrugs and slips into a seat next to Bruce, deliberately choosing the one that puts him between the doctor and the agent.

“Now,” Coulson begins again, “are you trying to tell me that you had business to attend to in Dr. Banner’s lab last night?”

“Science can’t always wait for daylight, sir.” Clint congratulates himself on saying that with a straight face.

Bruce shakes his head, finally speaking up. “He was just trying to help me.”

Coulson looks between the two of them and sighs. “We have these rules in place for a reason, gentlemen.”

Clint glances over at Bruce, who looks like he’s worried they’re going to get something worse than a talking to. Eager to put Bruce at ease, Clint says, “Won’t happen again. Well, at least, not with Bruce. It might happen again with me, let’s be honest. But Bruce is all about the rules, and it really is my fault. Sorry, sir.”

Coulson presses his lips together in a thin line and looks like he wants to give Clint more than a verbal reprimand. “Well. Director Fury wanted me to issue you a warning. So this is it. Consider yourselves warned.”

Bruce nods and says a quiet thank you as Coulson gathers up his meeting notes and leaves.

Clint swivels his chair to face his friend. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Bruce, for once, meets his eyes. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, but what kind of friend would I be if I made you deal with Coulson all by yourself? Besides, me ‘n Coulson have been working together for freaking ever, okay? He likes me. Even if he does tell everyone that I drive him up a wall.”

A shy smile tugs at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “I can see that.”

“You just can’t let his government hardass act throw you for a loop, okay? I think you’re the only one left on the team who still buys that, anyway. Well, maybe Steve, but that could just be Steve trying to be nice.”

“Oh.” Bruce is oddly struck by how comfortable Clint sounds with everyone, teammates, team captain, agents. What he wouldn’t give to have even a smidgen of that confidence.

“So, what’s on your agenda for the day? Hey, you know what, if you can pry yourself away from science for a while, you should come down to the range.”

“Um. Sure,” Bruce answers, even though he has absolutely no intention of going anywhere outside of his lab today, barring calls to assemble and so forth. Clint may be trying his hardest to be convincing, but Bruce has had enough anxiety for one day already.

“Great! Hope to see you down there.” Clint hops out of his seat, and before he can stop himself, he finally, _finally_ gives in and tousles Bruce’s hair with his knuckles for a split second, and then he’s out of the room, leaving a thoroughly confused doctor in his wake.


	7. Bruce/Science OTP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which drugged confessions are a total cop out.

Clint is not deterred when Bruce never turns up in the range. After he cools down and showers, he tracks him down in his lab. Not that Dr. Banner is ever particularly hard to find; he’s always in his lab.

“You picked science over me,” Clint calls from the doorway. “Bruce, I’m heartbroken.”

Bruce startles momentarily and then looks over his shoulder to see Clint leaning up against the doorframe, wearing a charming smile, a t-shirt, and jeans. He looks like a picture out of a magazine.

Clint scopes out the room, noting the marker board with Bruce’s nervous handwriting scrawled over it, the Bunsen burners and test tubes, the computer monitors and Petri dishes. And of course, there’s a host of other equipment Clint has no hope of recognizing or naming. Bruce is hovering over a microscope, a slide in hand.

“Nice place you got here,” Clint continues, because he knows fuck-all about science, and why did he think it would be a good idea to come up here? He’s going to look like an _idiot_.

“Well. Stark labs. Fully equipped,” Bruce murmurs, but looks pleased nonetheless.

“So, wanna show me what you’re working on?” Okay, so apparently Clint’s going to continue to put his foot in his mouth right up until the point that Bruce figures out that all of this is completely over his head, and then Clint is going to run away like a coward. Good plan.

“Really?” Bruce fails not to sound too awed at the suggestion. “Most people aren’t really interested.”

“Well, I want to know what’s more interesting than coming down to watch me and Natasha on the range. I gotta say, we are pretty awesome.” Plus, he adds silently, I want to know what’s holding your attention so intently. What are you so passionate about, Dr. Banner?

“All right.” Bruce perks up. “Come over here and I’ll let you look at this under the microscope. Just, uh, let me know if I’m boring you.”

“You never bore me.” It’s the truth.

Shoulder to shoulder, Bruce explains his latest experiment, and Clint finds that Bruce is actually really good at explaining things. Oh, sure, there are points that fly over his head, but for the most part, he gets it. And he likes, no, _loves_ seeing Bruce’s face light up as he talks about his work, as he begins to gesture wildly as he explains the nuances of gamma radiation, the effects on his experiments, what that could mean for the science community at large. Clint doubts he’s seen Bruce this excited before, in a good way, at least. Bruce smiles, a full-out grin, and it takes all of Clint’s reserve not to just grab him around the waist and hold him there against his chest, keeping him all to himself. 

Of course, he doesn’t. This crush he’s harboring is completely outlandish. But he’ll be content with friendship, because he’ll have to be. 

Bruce is adjusting the lens in the microscope so Clint can get a better picture of what he’s talking about when Tony Stark strolls into the lab without so much as a cursory knock at the door.

“Banner, you got a minute? Sure you do. Listen, I’m going to steal you away from Clint here, I’ve got something cooking downstairs that I want you to take a look at, related to your areas of expertise.”

“Oh, of course,” Bruce says, looking over at Clint for a moment. He’s glad that he can finally be of some use on the team when not in Hulk form, but he can’t deny that he wishes it were another time. He’d been enjoying himself with Clint, and Clint had been so attentive. Still, probably for the best. Any more time around the archer and he might have said something thoroughly embarrassing, like how much he _likes_ him. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Great,” Tony says, guiding Bruce out of the room with a friendly hand at the small of his back. Tony’s just being his typical self, but Clint still has to shake off the urge to flip him off as they walk away. Not that he has anything to worry about from Tony; not when he’s so wrapped up with the team captain. And it’s not Tony’s fault that Clint always winds up having hopeless crushes. It’s just what Clint does. Now they’re off to talk science, and Clint definitely doesn’t want to tag along so that they can talk circles around him. 

Whatever Stark has Bruce involved in turns out to take up most of his time. For almost two weeks, Clint only sees Bruce in Hulk mode. And while, sure, Clint gets along with Hulk better than most, it’s really not the same.

So the next time they’re coming back to HQ after being out in a fight, Clint skips his debriefing session and goes to search him out. It takes all of his undercover skills to slip past Coulson, and he knows that Natasha saw him, but she had only given the barest of winks. He can count on her not to say anything as long as whatever he’s doing doesn’t affect the mission. She’s practical like that.

Hypothetically, Clint had known that SHIELD arranges for Bruce to be taken back to HQ separate from the rest of the Avengers. After all, they often had to sedate him to get him back. So in theory, Clint knows that Bruce needs extra time to recover. He just hadn’t known that he’d look like this.

“God, Bruce. You look awful. You look like you’ve been on a week-long bender.”

Bruce looks up from where he’s lying on the stretcher-slash-hospital bed, in the tiny room sequestered away from the rest of the Avengers. His chest is bare underneath the thin hospital-grade sheets, and Clint tries and fails not to sneak a peak.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He still feels woozy from the sedatives. Sometimes that happens, that some of the dosage stays in his system even after he changes back.

“So, I haven’t seen you around much. Tony working you too hard? I could threaten to shoot him in the foot unless he gives you a break.”

Bruce giggles, partly because he does genuinely find Clint funny, and partly because he’s so medicated right now he couldn’t even stand up if he tried. “No, uh, we’re working on...something. To stop Loki. You know. Loki. We’re gonna stop him with science.”

“That’s...great. You really are high right now, aren’t you?”

“Sedatives,” Bruce explains. “Plus, my body chemistry isn’t uh...you know. Normal. They don’t have the same...uh...”

“Effect?” Clint hazards.

“Yeah, that. They don’t have the same effect on me always. Gosh, Clint, you’re so pretty.”

“Huh?” Clint hadn’t been expecting that, and now his eyes are wide and hopeful.

But Bruce only mutters, “Gonna sleep now, I think,” and passes out.

The moment only gets worse for Clint when he turns around to see Coulson standing in the doorway, arms crossed, folder in hand.

“You missed your—“

“Debriefing, yeah, I know,” Clint says and follows him out, sighing dejectedly.


	8. Beware of falling objects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce finally makes a move.

Clint would deny it to anyone who asks that he prowls around the mansion when he has nothing better to do. He likes to be aware of his surroundings, for one. Sure, there’s Tony’s 24/7 security feed, but there’s nothing like a good old-fashioned stake-out to calm ones nerves.

That’s why he’s in the hallway when he hears a series of dull crashes coming from the direction of Bruce’s bedroom. He knows it’s Bruce’s room because all of the Avengers are aware of the others’ living quarters, in case of emergency. He’s never actually been inside, so he hesitates when he knocks lightly at the door and then pushes it open.

“Everything okay in here?”

Clint doesn’t know what he was expecting to find, maybe a hulked out Bruce, or one of Tony’s robots gone awry and AWOL, but certainly not the sight in front of him.  


Bruce is sprawled on the floor, looking dazed and holding a hand to his head. He’s surrounded by what looks like an avalanche of books and papers, and a nearby dilapidated shelf tells the story clearly enough.

“Clint,” Bruce says, squinting at the man standing at the doorway poised to deal with any imminent threats. “Hi.”

“Doing a little redecorating?” Clint says as he holds out a hand to help Bruce to his feet. When he takes his hand, he notices the black fingerless gloves Bruce is wearing.

“Forgot to take off my glasses the last time I, er, went green. Stupid of me, really. And I can’t find my spare pair, so...” He trails off with a little self-deprecating shrug and hunches his shoulders.

All Clint can think at the moment is that Bruce looks like a hot mess. No glasses to hide behind, his curly hair sticking out in all directions in endearing little tufts, and the gloves—

Clint is still holding onto Bruce’s hand when he says, “What’s with the gloves?” He doesn’t mean it to come out as sharp as it does, and Bruce only looks self-conscious when he answers, “Oh. Um. Sometimes my hands get cold.”

Clint has a million comebacks to those words, a million lines about how he could do something about that. He can feel the heat from Bruce’s hand spreading through the fuzzy material of the glove, and he wants to tell Bruce to take them off, to get closer, to let him see more than just his fingertips, to tell him that _he_ could keep his hands warm, just give him a chance.

He bites his lip, though, and artlessly lets go of Bruce’s hand. 

“You hit your head?” Clint says instead, and Bruce peers at him with guileless brown eyes.

“Uh, just a small bump. I’m okay.” There’s a tinge of pink at Bruce’s forehead, but if it wasn’t a hard enough hit to bring out the Hulk, Clint figures that he’s right about it not being a big deal. 

“Want me to help you find your glasses?” Clint’s eyes dart around the room, as if being given a mission will let him escape his own feelings for the moment.

“Only if you don’t mind.”

With Hawkeye’s perfect vision and knack for searching out lost things, Bruce’s glasses are back to framing his face in no time. Clint is less skilled at trying to help Bruce get his papers and scientific journals back in place, but Bruce doesn’t look irritated at his lack of finesse when he tries to help gather them up.

“Thank you,” Bruce says as he straightens up loose sheets of paper while Clint fixes the shelf back on the wall. “You really don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Yeah, I do. Otherwise I’ll just worry about you being attacked by your shelf again.”

That gets a laugh from Bruce, who then looks over at him tentatively. “So, I was wondering...”

Clint’s eyes are fixed on the shelf he’s repairing, but his ears are pricked in anticipation of Bruce’s next words.

“Yeah?” he gives Bruce a verbal nudge when he doesn’t continue.

“Do you want to, um, maybe get coffee sometime? I mean, I understand if you’re busy, and it’s okay if you don’t want to. It would be nice to get out, though. And I’m not exactly allowed out of here on my own—not that that’s the only reason I’m asking you out. Not that I’m asking you out! Not...not unless...you want to...” Bruce finishes rambling and casts his eyes downward, looking anywhere but at the archer playing handyman with his bedroom shelf.

Clint makes sure the shelf is firmly back in place on the wall before turning around. There’s so much he wants to address in what Bruce has just said, but first things first, “You’re not allowed out on your own?”

“Well. No. I thought—I thought that was common knowledge,” Bruce says, all but collapsing helplessly on the edge of his bed.

“You—they let me take you on a road trip, didn’t they?”

“Um. It’s all right if I’m with another Avenger. Or, um, on a mission. But other than that, I’m not really, uh, authorized to leave base without permission.”

Clint manfully resists the urge to march straight down to SHEILD headquarters and give them a piece of his mind, or possibly a piece of his fists. Instead he sits down heavily next to Bruce on the bed and slings a companionable arm around his shoulders.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I think that sucks,” Clint says thoughtfully, trying to keep his anger at SHIELD out of his voice. “Christ, Bruce. You shouldn’t be treated like some—some _prisoner_ , okay? You’re our team member. We’re going to bring this up at the next meeting and get this taken care of, okay? You shouldn’t have to live like that.”

“No, please, I—,” Bruce shakes his head, minutely leaning in to Clint’s grip. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“Oh, no. No way am I backing off on this, Bruce. It’s not right. You may not want to cause trouble, fine. I’ll raise enough trouble for the both of us. And Natasha will back me up, I know she will. I can probably get Tony to take my side, and Steve will likely side with Tony. I don’t know about Thor, he’s been pretty wrapped up with his own issues lately, but I’m sure he’ll side with his team.”

“Clint—“

“Bruce, just let me handle this. I’ve been dealing with SHIELD for years, now. And I know that if you never speak up, they’ll just continue on their merry little path of least resistance with a fuck ton of red tape along the way. So just—let me, okay?”

After a few moments, Bruce nods, and Clint pulls him closer against his side.

“You know, if this is your way of saying you don’t want to get coffee with me, that’s okay,” Bruce says quietly, pulling away in anticipation of rejection, no doubt.

“What? No. Of course I’ll get coffee with you.”

“Oh. Good.” Some of the tension visibly fades away from Bruce’s demeanor.

“Yeah. Good. Uh, one thing though. Are we getting coffee, or are we, ya know, getting _coffee_?”

Bruce shifts further away on the bed before asking, “Which one do you want it to be?”

“Uh, the second one. I think. I mean, the first one’s good, too. Wait, which one is the option where I might get to kiss you after?”

Clint has never seen anyone blush as profusely as Bruce is doing now. It’s a good look on him, and wow, Clint realizes he must really have it bad, because he apparently thinks that _everything_ is a good look on the man.

Bruce’s breath catches audibly, clearly unable to answer at this time.

“Hey, _you don’t have a TV in here_ ,” Clint says, partly in awe, and partly to change subjects and give Bruce a chance to breathe normally again. He points at the spot where clearly a television should be located. How could he not have a television? Everyone has a television.

“Oh. No, no I don’t. Should I?”

Clint shrugs. “Not if you don’t want one.”

“I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t really need it for news.” It was true that SHIELD provided them with a daily breakdown of everything they needed to know that was relevant to the Avengers, and besides, watching the news could be hazardous to someone who was so frequently on it. Clint knew that Bruce didn’t really care to see footage of the Hulk. He could understand not wanting to hear a reporter’s commentary on him, where they didn’t hesitate to use words like ‘monster.’ 

“Right.” Clint nervously drummed his fingers on his hip. He should probably go. Sitting on a bed with his crush (who apparently _did_ swing that way and had also asked him for _coffee_ -the-second-option) was not helping him quell the urge to pin Bruce down and kiss him. “So, listen. Coffee soon, yeah? I should go.”

“Okay. Um. Thank you. For everything.”

“No problem.” Clint risks shooting him a grin as he rises and goes to the door. Clint feels like celebrating, even if it is only coffee, so he heads down to the range to spend some quality time with his bow.


	9. as long as it's okay with you I think I'll stay right here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is still no coffee, but there is champagne.

The next day, mid-meeting, Bruce has to quietly excuse himself from the room. He slips into the hallway outside and breathes deeply even as he hears his heart thundering loud in his ears.

Above the sound of his heart he can hear Fury and Tony yelling, with Clint trying to get a word in edgewise. Clint had kept to his word; he’d let the rest of the team members know Bruce’s situation and how unfair he thought it was. Everyone had agreed they would handle it at the meeting, beforehand. 

Bruce is not surprised that it quickly evolved into a screaming match. And with Fury and Stark going at each other like fighters in a ring, because they just happened to have the hottest tempers, besides Bruce, of course. And he couldn’t even get involved, because the fear of hulking out at inappropriate times was sort of the entire issue.

Tony had taken it personally, had some major issues with SHIELD in the first place, and Bruce had noticed the way his eyes had shuttered, just for a moment, when Clint had spoken the word _prisoner_. But it wasn’t really Tony’s fight. It wasn’t Clint’s either, for that matter. Or Steve’s, or Natasha’s, or Thor's, though they were all, somehow, miraculously in agreement with Clint. Even Coulson had looked uncomfortable when the subject had been brought up, and Bruce had never thought he’d see the day when that happened.

But the only thing Bruce can think now is that he just wishes it would all stop, that he doesn’t want to rock the boat. He doesn’t like all the attention on him, has never been comfortable in the spotlight, being the center of discussion. He’s had to deal with it far too often on the team, and he’s starting to get used to it the best he can, when he has to. He’s even enjoying working with Tony on their project, but at least there he knows what’s expected of him. He feels at home in a lab, even with Tony’s loud music and idiosyncrasies. But he can’t help that he feels out of place in meetings that resemble cage matches most of the time.

He wants to disappear. He could probably create a serum in the lab that did that, come to think of it. But he won’t, because that won’t help. It wouldn’t take away the Hulk, or his anger problems, or his social anxiety.

Bruce listens as voices inside the room begin to soften. He hopes that means that they’re somehow reaching a decision and calming down, and not that someone’s been killed. 

“Hey,” Clint says, poking his head out of the door and spying Bruce leaning wearily up against the wall. “You okay to come back inside?”

“That depends. Fury’s not going to shout at me, is he?”

“Nah,” Clint says, walking out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. “It’s cool. There’s not even any bloodshed, so I think this qualifies as a pretty successful meeting.”

Bruce shakes his head, his curls falling messily against his forehead. “We’d all been getting along, these past few weeks. I don’t want us to start fighting again. I don’t want to be the—the _cause_ of that.”

“You’re not. Don’t even worry, okay? Your teammates are sticking up for you, is all. It’s a thing we do.” Clint smiles and reaches out a hand to smooth an errant curl back behind Bruce’s ear.

Bruce returns the smile, unassuming, and adjusts his glasses. “Guess I’d better go back in, then.”

“Yep. No running off to your lab for you.”

Bruce tries not to hunch in on himself as he walks back inside and takes his seat. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, even if the rest of the team is trying not to be too obvious about it.

Coulson is the first one to speak. “Dr. Banner, in light of your teammates’ firm resolve on this matter, it has been decided that you will have full privileges in regards to leaving the base at will. However, it should be noted that this is a temporary solution, and may be revoked at any time. You will still stay within state borders, and you will remain permanently housed with the rest of the Avengers. Is that clear?”

Bruce manages a quiet _yes_ and _thank you_ , which Coulson seems to be satisfied with as he begins to pack up his briefcase. Tony mumbles something sarcastic-sounding under his breath, but Bruce doesn’t quite catch it.

Fury only watches the proceedings with a stern eye before leaving the room with a quick stride, with Coulson following shortly after.

“Well, that’s that. Who wants to celebrate Banner’s newfound freedom? I say we all go out tonight,” Tony says. He’s wearing a shit-eating grin that says _I just won a round against Nick Fury, why yes I am very pleased about it_.

“Don’t you have work to do on—“ Steve starts, and stops when Tony raises an eyebrow in his direction, a slight pout beginning to form at his lips.

“Come on, Captain. What about a morale booster? Don’t tell me the team doesn’t need a little downtime.”

Only a few short weeks ago, Steve Rogers and Tony Stark would be staring each other down coldly, barely able to stand each other’s presence without going for the other’s weak spots. Now, Steve only sighs and concedes the point, shooting Tony a look so fond that even Bruce, with all his obliviousness to social cues, can’t miss it.

 

This is how all of the Avengers wind up in one of the fanciest restaurants in town, drinking champagne and eating steak and lobster. Well, except for Thor, who is eating steak, steak, and also steak. 

Bruce has never been inside a restaurant like this before. He’s been to nice places, sure, but the best he’s been to looks like a one star in comparison. They’re seated at a big round table that Tony had procured with a flash of his shiny teeth to the maitre d’, and it’s way in the back of the restaurant where they won’t be disturbed. 

Tony and Steve mostly have eyes for each other as they sit together, though sometimes Tony turns to Thor who is sitting next to him and says something to make him laugh that great big booming laugh of his. Natasha is seated next to Thor, also eating steak and impressing Thor with whatever she’s saying in low tones that don’t carry across the table. That leaves Clint sitting on the other side of Natasha, and Bruce to round out the circle in between him and Captain America. Bruce isn’t sure whether the seating arrangement is dumb luck, or the fact that Clint’s really good at turning up where he wants to be, but he’ll take it.

“Nice place, huh?” Clint says, looking at him as he raises his glass of champagne. 

“Yes, it is.” God, can’t he think of anything else to say? Maybe he should have cursed the seating arrangement instead.

“I gotta say, I always feel outta place at this sort of establishment, you know? I mean, when I’m here as myself, and not undercover someplace where I gotta pretend I’m used to wining and dining with the fat cats. I always feel like the waiters are looking at me like I’m a bit of rough, to be honest.”

“Oh.” Bruce hadn’t expected to hear that from Clint. “Yeah, this isn’t really my style either.”

“Ha. That’s good to hear, because there’s no way I can compete with Stark over there. You had it right with coffee. And that burger joint I took you to? My date ideas don’t get much classier than that. That is, if you’re still interested.”

Bruce almost spills over his glass of water in his alarm. Sure, Clint’s not shouting it across the table, but they haven’t even been on one date yet; Bruce would have thought he would want to be a little more subtle about it. “Of course I am. But—but if _you’ve_ changed your mind, I’m okay with that.”

“No, no. No way. That’s not what I was—I just wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me, okay? I know you weren’t too keen about today’s meeting.”

“I couldn’t be mad at you,” Bruce says, taking a sip of water, his throat suddenly going dry.

“Because of the Hulk?”  
Bruce tries not to wince at the reminder, because not even here, having dinner like a regular guy, is he in any way normal, even when he tries to pretend like he is for only a little while. “No. Because—because you’re _you_.”

Clint laughs. “Aw, but people get mad at me all the time. Just ask Natasha.”

Bruce shrugs and fiddles with his silverware. “Maybe. But you’re the only one who’s really, er, _talked_ with me in a really long time. God, that sounds pathetic, but it’s true.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. You were running from the government, so I’d be hard-pressed to make friends in that situation too.”

“You’ve been an amazing friend,” Bruce agrees readily. “Um, if we do get coffee, which I do want to, believe me--that won’t ruin it, will it?”

“Nope. I’d still think you’re cool, coffee or no coffee.” Clint grins at him, open and honest, and Bruce can’t help but melt a little bit. He straightens out the napkin in his lap, just to have something to do with his hands.

“I can’t say too many people have called me cool before. In fact, you may be the first.”

“Hmm.” Clint looks thoughtful for a moment and takes a bite of lobster. He swallows, and says, “Well, I think you are. And I’m pretty sure if we asked around the table, we could get some more votes in your favor.”

“You’re not actually going to—“ Bruce says nervously, his eyes going wide.

“Nah, I think I’ve embarrassed you enough for one day. Totally unintentional, by the way. I just wanted to say that, so you’d know.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Clint furrows his brow for a moment. “I feel like you say ‘thank you’ to me a lot.”

“Is it a problem?”

Clint shakes his head. “I just feel like I’m getting up your expectations too much, if you insist on being so grateful all the time. Wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You’re not. I don't think you could.”

“Well, here’s hoping,” Clint says, lifting his champagne glass and smirking. “Now eat your insanely expensive dinner, or I’ll tell on you to our team captain over there.”


	10. Like riding a bike with no handlebars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things still don't go as planned, and Clint is both thoughtful and kind of a failboat.

Bruce spends too much time deciding what to wear on their coffee date, and winds up ripping the decision to threads anyway when they get a call to assemble before he and Clint can even think about setting foot out the door.

It’s late at night before either of them return back to the mansion. Bruce arrives after everyone else, having been detained longer to make sure he’s stable. Despite his new clearance levels, Bruce has the distinct feeling that he’s still not trusted, and he doubts that’s going to change. And he wouldn’t put it past SHIELD to have him tracked, either. He’s always been a private person, but in the role he’s playing now, privacy seems to be a thing of the past.

But, ever since the radiation, his life has been a series of trade-offs. When he had been on the run, he gave up so much, just to keep himself out of government hands. At least he helped some people today. They stopped the alien invasion in the middle of the city. That’s something to be proud of. That’s something worth the sacrifice, he thinks, to be part of that.

He drags himself upstairs, for once not even thinking of stopping by his lab. He’s almost to his bedroom, in fact, before he feels a warm hand brush lightly against his arm.

“Hey,” Clint says quietly when Bruce turns around to face him. “You all right?”

“Fine.” The words come out automatically, even if Bruce is feeling less-than-fine. 

Clint gives him a once-over with his eyes which makes Bruce wish he wasn’t wearing the garishly teal hospital scrubs SHIELD had given him to wear back. He normally keeps a few changes of clothes in a locker at HQ, but he’d used up all his spares.

“You sure?” Clint looks at him like he’s searching for something, and then says lightly, “You know, that isn’t really your color.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bruce’s answering smile turns into an unexpected wince. He just wants to lie down. He reaches out for the wall to steady himself, but finds the hard muscle of Clint’s chest beneath his hand instead. “Oh,” he breathes, “Sorry.”

When Bruce starts to move his hand away, however, Clint rests his own on top of it, keeping it in place. “Don’t apologize. In fact, come with me?”

Bruce squints through his glasses, the lenses still spotty from his groggy post-Hulk fumbling with them. Clint’s expression is entirely earnest, and Bruce finds himself agreeing to be led down the hallway and into Clint’s room.

Clint shuts the door behind them with a sharp click. “There’s a chair, or you can sit on the bed if you want.”

Bruce takes the chair, hoping that will be less awkward, that Clint isn’t expecting anything more from him just then. It soon becomes apparent that the thought need not have even crossed his mind when Clint hands over a cup and says, “It’s decaf. You want cream or sugar?”

Bruce holds the mug with two hands, letting the warmth seep into his skin. He takes Clint up on the offer of sugar, no cream, and blows over the top before taking a sip.

“I know, I know, it’s nothing fancy. We’ll still go out, maybe next week, if we’re done with the paperwork from this whole alien thing by then?” Clint takes a seat on the edge of his bed, watching him carefully, like he expects Bruce to get up and leave at any moment.

“This is wonderful,” Bruce says meaningfully. “I’d like to go out, yes. But this is...it’s very thoughtful.”

Clint basically preens under the compliment, taking a drink from his own coffee cup. He thrums his fingers against the side of the cup before saying, “So, aliens. Crazy, right?”

“Yes. Er, can I ask you a favor?”

“Go ahead.”

“Could we maybe talk about something else?” Bruce has been dealing with that aftermath all day, and he really could stand for their conversation to be a little less surreal.

“Oh, sure. I totally get it, no problem.”

A silence settles over them that isn’t entirely uncomfortable, but Clint keeps glancing at him with a look in his eyes that Bruce can only describe as gentleness.

“They really put you through the wringer today, didn’t they?” Clint asks.

“No more than usual, really.”

Clint fidgets in place, then says, “If I told you something, would you promise not to make fun of me?”

Bruce can’t imagine a scenario where he would ever do something like that, so he nods readily.

“I think you’re braver than any of us.”

Bruce just stares at him in shock for a few moments before answering, “I’m not...I’m not brave at all.”

Then Clint just gets this look in his eyes, something caught between fondness and indignation. His blue eyes are sharp and focused, his mouth set in a stubborn straight line. “God, Bruce. You just—you really don’t know, do you?”

The coffee is cooling in Bruce’s cup, and he feels like any answer he gives will be just as tepid. Where Clint is going with all this, he can’t say, but he’s beginning to wish he’d agreed to have a nice, safe, normal (for the Avengers’ given value of normal) conversation about aliens instead.

“No, you don’t,” Clint answers for him eventually. “Don’t be mad at me, but I’ve been talking to some of the medical personnel at SHIELD. Did some digging, if you will. What you go through, every time you get called out on a mission—“

“Don’t,” Bruce says, and it comes out as a choked, almost guttural sound. “It’s no more than what any of us do, and it’s not bravery. It’s penitence.”

In a flash, Clint is in front of him, crouching down to look Bruce straight in the eyes, his hands resting on top of his. “You can’t believe that,” Clint says, and it comes out like pleading.

But Bruce is already shaking his head, already moving his hands from beneath Clint’s and extricating himself from the staring match. “You don’t really know me, then. You think I’m—“

“Wonderful,” Clint says quickly, cutting him off. “And brave, and smart, and—“

“Stop.” It’s almost too painful to hear, and Bruce’s ears are ringing with his own guilt. Guilty that somehow, here’s this man in front of him, this incredibly noble and talented man, this man who is not only giving him the time of day, but has taken the time to try to break through Bruce’s barriers, and if he keeps insisting on doing it, all Bruce’s walls will come down. And he’d put those up to protect other people, to protect himself, and if they’re washed away like so much sand, how will he put them back up again when this all falls apart?

“Okay. Okay,” Clint says, sitting back on his heels and giving him space. He stands abruptly and strides across the room, turning his back and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Bruce puts down his coffee cup and walks over to him, hesitant. 

Clint still doesn’t turn around as he says, “Yeah, I do. Shouldn’t have pried into your life like that.”

“My medical records are hardly a secret. You probably have clearance, anyway.” Bruce focuses on that, because everything else Clint has said is too much to handle right now.

“That’s not the point, though, is it? I’m your friend, right? I should have just asked you. I was just—after everything you told me, about SHIELD, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Clint.” Bruce puts a tentative hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Turn around, please?”

The archer does, slowly, looking at Bruce with just a hint of hopefulness.

“Can I just--?” And then Bruce is closing the gap between them, letting their lips brush in the gentlest kiss imaginable. Clint doesn’t push, just lets it happen, and blinks at him when Bruce backs away again.

“Wow,” Clint says, and Bruce reddens.

“Was that...okay?” They’d been leading up to something, but Bruce isn’t quite sure that was it. He’s so bad at reading social cues that he can’t help second-guessing himself.

“Tell you what,” Clint says, moving closer so he can murmur next to Bruce’s ear, “You can do that any time you like.” Clint’s hands find his, grasping them tight, but not too tight. “Guess that means I didn’t screw up too badly, right?”

“No, I—I think that’s my job,” Bruce answers, only half-joking.

“Kiss me again, and we’ll call it even?”

This time Clint takes control of the kiss, pressing their lips together with a hand at the back of Bruce’s head, Clint’s fingers tangling in Bruce’s messy hair. Bruce lets out what can only be described as a whimper when they break apart, though they both look flushed.

“Just look at you,” Clint says, his voice full of wonder as his fingers trail over the shell of Bruce’s ear.

“I’m a mess.” And he doesn’t just mean the messy curls and the dark circles under his eyes and the ugly hospital scrubs. There’s a million reasons why what just happened shouldn’t be happening. Bruce doesn’t honestly know what he was thinking when he suggested a date. He’s volatile, dangerous, and a hazard to those around him.

But Clint’s eyes are roaming his face, looking at him like he’s so utterly _human_ , his fingers tracing down over the edge of his jaw. “Wouldn’t like if you were perfect,” he says simply.


	11. Save some face, you know you've only got one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is breakfast and archery, and Natasha and Clint are bros.

The next morning Clint is in the kitchen, adding mushrooms to an omelet. He’d said goodnight to Bruce after a few more kisses the night before, Bruce excusing himself with that apologetic way he had, like he was worried he was somehow disappointing Clint. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. Clint hadn’t expected Bruce to make the first move, kissing him so sweetly like he’d done. The weight of Bruce’s hands in his had been nearly feather-light, anything but a burden. The feel of Bruce’s lips against his own had felt like a contradiction, all at once soothing and exciting, like the first spark of fire to a long-burning ember. 

Clint smiles to himself, glad to be alone in the kitchen to replay those private moments in his head. He’d even slept all the way through last night, and he hadn’t done that in ages.

“Oh. Good morning.”

Clint looks over his shoulder. Having been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard Bruce enter the room. Bruce looks better, he decides. The dark circles under his eyes are still there, but they’ve lightened, and Bruce looks more comfortable in his own grey slacks and yellow button-down dress shirt.

“Hey, you.” Clint flips the omelet over with a spatula. When he glances at Bruce again, the man is hovering near the table, looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Have a seat,” Clint offers, and it’s not like it’s exactly _his_ to offer, but he hates the way Bruce always acts like he’s somehow imposing.  
Bruce takes the advice, however, and sits down, taking off his glasses and using his shirttails to clean off the lenses.

Clint turns off the stove burner, separates the omelet into halves, and sets a plate down in front of Bruce. He companionably sits down next to him and digs a fork into his own half.

“Oh, I couldn’t...” Bruce puts his glasses back on and blinks at Clint, his mouth set in an adorable little pout.

“Hey, it’s not like I wasn’t going to come track you down and shove a plate at you anyway. You just saved me an extra step. Eat,” Clint says, encouraging, and victoriously stabs a mushroom with his fork.

“Oh. Well, thank you? At least let me get you coffee. Or tea. Orange juice?”

“Yeah, coffee’s good. Thanks.”

Bruce is almost graceful as he sets down two mugs on the counter and slips back into his seat. They eat in silence until Tony glides into the kitchen in pajama pants and socks and nothing else and fumbles with the cups in the cupboard before recklessly pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Well, aren’t you two the very picture of domesticity,” he grumbles, taking a sip of what looks to be too-hot coffee and squinting at them both while scratching a lazy hand across his stomach.

“Sexy, Tony. Really,” Clint deadpans, rolling his eyes.

“You’re just jealous and you know it,” he says, already sounding more awake. “So, who made breakfast and didn’t invite me?”

“Get one of your robots to make you breakfast,” Clint answers.

“Sorry,” Bruce says softly, as if he feels guilty about it.

“It’s not the same,” Tony whines, leaning up against the counter nonchalantly.

“Get Steve to make you breakfast,” Clint suggests without missing a beat.

“Steve’s been down at HQ since about six this morning,” Tony explains. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Tony, Tony, Tony. You’re breaking my heart here,” Clint holds his non-dominant hand to his chest.

“Shut up. And make me some eggs?” Tony gives him a hopeful look, and Clint sighs, resigned, and lets his fork clatter to his now-empty plate.

“Fine, but only because I’m already finished with mine. I hope you know, you’re a spoiled brat.”

Tony just grins triumphantly and turns his attention to Bruce as Clint opens up the fridge and gets the ingredients back out.

“Hey, Banner. You’re looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. What’s the occasion?”

“Um,” Bruce says just as Clint calls out, “Tony, don’t be an asshole this early in the morning, or I’m dropping your omelet on the floor.”

“I wasn’t,” Tony argues with Clint then turns back to Bruce, “Well, that’s a lie. I kind of was. Goddamn Nick Fury, calling Steve in this morning.”

“What’s going on?” Bruce asks, curious.

“Hell if I know. Damn SHIELD and their lousy need-to-know-basis policy.”

“Because you _don’t_ need to know everything, Stark,” Natasha says, having suddenly appeared at Tony’s side.

Tony, for his part, only manages to spill a few drops of his coffee that splash over the side of his cup in his surprise. “Hey, Natasha. Warn a guy, will you?”

“Hey, Tasha,” Clint says from across the room. “You want breakfast?”

Natasha nods her assent just as Tony complains, “Hey, how come she gets the red carpet treatment, but I have to beg?”

Natasha and Clint share a look from across the room, neither of them deigning to answer.

“You’re both snobs,” Tony declares, causing Clint to choke on a laugh. “Yeah, good one, Tony.”

“Bruce,” Natasha says, immediately commanding his attention. “Clint and I were talking. You will come down to the range with us today, yes?”

Before Bruce can answer, Tony says, “Oh, I see how it is. Everyone just ignore me.”

Bruce bites at his lip thoughtfully before asking, “Do you need me in the lab today, Tony?”

Tony shrugs, not really offended at apparently being left out of a lot so far this morning, but pleased at being addressed nonetheless. “Couple things I wanted you to look over, but there’s no rush. Go ahead; leave me to my own devices.” He waves a hand at Bruce as if giving him his blessing.

“Okay then,” Bruce says, not at all looking pleased at the recent turn of events. He looks to Natasha, almost bashfully. “Why did you want me to come down?”

“Cross-training,” Clint answers for her as he reaches the table and sets down plates in front of Natasha and Tony. He leaves for a moment only to return with a coffee cup for Natasha.

Tony takes up his fork, only to remark, “You’re good at this, Clint. If Fury ever gets tired of you, you can always be my personal chef.”

That earns him a light smack on each arm from both Clint and Natasha.

“Ow. No fair ganging up. You both suck.”

Clint grins, “Yeah, yeah. Besides, Fury would get tired of you, first.”

Tony flips him off, because he can’t really argue with that point, and starts eating.

After breakfast, they all part ways, but not before Natasha gets a promise from Bruce that he’ll join them on the range in the afternoon.

Two hours later, Bruce is dripping sweat down his collar as Clint shows him proper form with a bow.

“After Clint is through with you, you will come with me for practice with handguns,” Natasha orders as she watches Clint adjust Bruce’s stance manually.

“Relax,” Clint whispers from behind him and close to his ear. His hands are warm and firm on Bruce’s hips.

“Why do I need to know this again?” Bruce protests feebly.

“It is good to be prepared for all eventualities,” Natasha answers, her arms crossed over her chest as she looks on approvingly.

“Right,” Bruce says hoarsely.

Clint moves his hands up to Bruce’s arms and corrects his posture once again before stepping back.

“All right, Bruce. Let it fly.”

Bruce involuntarily squeezes his eyes shut tight and releases the arrow. When he opens his eyes again, he’s flanked by both of his would-be teachers as they look out at the target speculatively. His arrow is at least several yards away from where he was supposed to be aiming.

“You must look at your target. Keep your eyes open and trust your aim,” Natasha says mildly, giving him what is probably meant to be an encouraging thump on the back.

“You ready to try again?” Clint asks, handing him another arrow.

“Yeah. Okay. Sorry,” Bruce says, sounding miserable.

“Hey, it’s all right. Nothing to apologize for, okay? You’re learning. You need to take a break?” Clint asks, taking the bow and arrow out of Bruce’s slightly trembling hands.

“Please?”

Clint nods. “Hey, Natasha. Time-out, okay? We’ll meet back here in fifteen.”

Natasha gives him an understanding look and Clint leads Bruce over to a bench and hands him a bottle of water.

“You know, you don’t really _have_ to do this,” Clint says as Bruce gratefully drinks down half the bottle. “Natasha and I thought it would be good, if you had some weapons training, for just in case type scenarios. But we don’t want to stress you out.”

Bruce glances at Clint from where he’s sitting, his brown eyes peeking out from underneath long, dark eyelashes. “I’m sorry, this really isn’t my thing.”

“I know, I know. But it would mean a lot, if you gave it a chance. If you think you can.”

Brown eyes flicker from Clint’s face, to the bow and arrow in his hands, and then to the range. “I can try again,” Bruce offers glumly.

“That’s the spirit. Sort of.” Clint decides to err on the side of optimism and pulls Bruce to his feet.

This time Clint doesn’t back away when he puts Bruce into position to make the shot. Instead he molds his body against Bruce’s, holding him steady as Bruce lets the arrow fly.

Bruce misses the bullseye, but he still hits the target for an hour before Natasha drags him away to train with a handgun.

This, at least, is somewhat familiar. Bruce has held a gun before, and Natasha’s clinical but clear instructions are helpful enough. When they both agree that Bruce is getting the hang of it, Clint and Natasha move to practice on either side of him. 

“Look at how much you improved in just one day,” Natasha proclaims as they all start winding down and cleaning up the weaponry. “See? All you need is practice.”

“I have to do this again?” Bruce says, strongly considering objecting. Muscles that he normally doesn’t use too much of are sore, and his head is reeling.

Natasha frowns, but her eyes are kind. “No, of course not. But it would be good for the team, especially, to know that you can defend yourself in either form.”

“Yeah,” Clint adds, “And it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I guess not,” Bruce relents. 

That seems to be enough for Natasha, who takes her leave then.

“Besides,” Clint says conversationally, once they’re alone, “You look hot with weapons in your hands.”

Bruce is already flushed from the exertion of concentrating on the range, but somehow he manages to turn a still deeper shade of red.

“Oh. I don’t—I’m not—“

“You are,” Clint insists. He’s standing only a few inches away. “I’d like to kiss you. That is, if you don’t hate me for the way I keep pushing you into things.”

“I don’t hate you. And you’re not that pushy. I’m a pacifist, not a doormat. I’d push back, if you were.”

“Yeah? Good to know.”

“But I’m not kissing you here. I want to go shower, to be perfectly honest.” Bruce’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his shirt collar drenched in sweat.

Clint lets himself pout momentarily. “So that’s how it is. Gonna make me wait, huh? I think you’re kind of a tease, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce rewards him with a knowing smile. “I plead the fifth. Now, I’m going to go shower and then head down to the lab. I could, uh, see you later? If you’re not busy.”

“Barring calls to save the world? I’m all yours.”


	12. Like you mean it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint lets some of his feelings show, and then they done sex.

“Planning on working all night?”

Bruce looks up to see Clint leaning against the workshop table. Tony had long since been dragged away upstairs by Steve, but he had stayed, wanting to check on a few more things, run a few more tests. Their work was far from complete, but it was utterly satisfying, knowing that what they were building could potentially solve some of New York’s more villainous problems.

“No,” Bruce wipes his oil-smudged fingers on a nearby cloth. Though working down here is not nearly as familiar to him as his lab upstairs, he’s well versed enough in the mechanical sciences, and let it be said that he’s not afraid to get a little dirty in the name of progress. “No, I—I can be finished for now, there’s nothing, um, pressing.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause I was hoping to walk you back upstairs. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, too.” Clint makes a show of shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Well, now. How can I refuse an offer like that?” Bruce responds with a shimmer of amusement in his eyes. 

Inside the elevator, Clint takes a moment to look him over. The urge to shove Bruce up against the elevator wall and kiss him breathless is strong, but clearly Bruce has boundaries, and Clint can respect that.

“You know,” Clint muses thoughtfully, “Offers to come over to my place sound way less suave now, seeing how we both live on the same floor.”

“Oh. Yes, I...see your point. It’s like college all over again.” Bruce’s eyes dart up to Clint’s face, expectant, before dropping his gaze back down to the floor.

Clint pauses, and then says, carefully, like he hopes he’s not being too self-deprecating, “I’ll have to take your word for it, seeing how I didn’t go.”

“Oh. You didn’t?” 

Bruce likely doesn’t mean anything by the remark, doesn’t sound judgmental or shocked or put off, but this is not the conversation that Clint wants to have right now. The elevator feels too small, and he feels trapped and self-conscious and vulnerable in a way that makes him want to make a run for it. So when the door finally pings open to their floor, Clint steps out in a movement not unlike a sprint and turns briefly to Bruce and spits out, “No, I was lucky to pass tenth grade. But that’s how it was in the circus, okay?”

And then Clint is striding away, because talking about it always makes him feel defensive, and he feels like an impulsive idiot, but he just can’t stop himself. 

“Clint?” Bruce is sort of following him a few steps behind, his brows furrowed in confusion. He has a hand out as if he wants to touch Clint but is afraid it won’t be accepted.

“Aw, hell,” Clint says, turning to him and scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Did I say something wrong?” Bruce is worrying at his lower lip, and a few haphazard curls are pouring down over his forehead, but he takes no heed of them.

“No. No, you didn’t do anything.” Clint takes the moment to push the curls out of Bruce face, and they feel so soft beneath his fingers that Clint wants to do nothing more than to keep his hand there, but he lets it drop to his side. “No, I—Dammit, I’m really no good at this, okay? You’re a fucking genius, Tony’s a fucking genius. I used to wear purple and shoot targets in front of a crowd, all right?”

“Clint, I—what’s wrong with purple?”

And Clint, feeling foolish for getting worked up over basically nothing, lets out a chuckle which soon morphs into a full belly laugh. “Of course. Of course that would be the thing you get hung up on,” he says breathlessly as soon as he can manage words again. “Nothing’s wrong with purple. In fact, you should see my bed sheets today.”

“Oh.” Bruce turns a little red. “Is that, uh, an invitation?”

“Gonna take me up on it?” Clint’s moment of unreasonable indignation has long since passed, and he reaches out for Bruce’s hand to pull him along. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Once they’re both in Clint’s room, and Clint has flicked on the light, Bruce’s eyes widen and he laughs a little. “Oh. You meant—your sheets are purple. That’s—that’s lovely, really.” Bruce sounds earnest and sincere, and Clint once again wants to pull him close and cover his face in kisses.

“So, did you want to talk more about, um, what you said?”

Clint feigns nonchalance as he shrugs and sits down on the bed to tug his boots off. “Nothing to talk about, really. Grew up in the circus, didn’t really get much of a formal education that way. Was kinda hoping it’d be a non-issue for you, but I’d understand if it was.”

“What?”

“’M not as smart as you. Hell, I don’t understand half the things you and Tony talk about.”

“Oh.” Bruce looks around the room awkwardly, as if maybe the words he needs are hidden somewhere in the corners. “Well, to be fair, I don’t understand half the things Tony says, either.”

“God, you’re perfect.” Clint rises from the bed and places himself directly in front of Bruce. “It really doesn’t bother you?”

“No, I—why would it? I’m not—I’m not the perfect one. Clint, really, I practically had a panic attack just holding a bow in my hand. I’m clumsy and a social nightmare and you basically had to rescue me from my own bedroom shelf. I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Clint insists. “I just get like this sometimes. Can we just forget about it, at least for right now?”

“Yes. Of course. We can do that.”

“Good. Yeah. You, uh, you wanna stick around for a while?”

“Well, that depends. What exactly did you have in mind?” Dark eyes glance teasingly out from under soft-looking eyelashes, and Clint has to brace his hands on the wall on either side of Bruce, effectively trapping him there, but still not touching, so close and not even brushing against each other.

“Tell me you want me to kiss you,” Clint pleads, the words echoing in his own head, berating himself for being so transparent yet again. He’s never usually like this; he hides emotion down deep, masking it with quips and pranks. But something about Bruce, something about quiet, unassuming, nonjudgmental Bruce is bringing it out of him. 

“Please.” Bruce has barely uttered the syllable before their lips are crashing together, Clint’s fingers tangling in Bruce’s hair, Bruce’s hands down on Clint’s hips, holding him steady as they press against each other.

When they finally break apart, Bruce whispers against Clint’s ear like a confession. “Earlier, to be honest, I was kind of afraid that if I started kissing you there, on the range, I wouldn’t want to stop.”

Clint slips a finger through Bruce’s belt loop and tugs him even closer. He abhors the space between their bodies, wants Bruce as close as possible, tightly pressed against him so he can feel the soft thud of his heart, the quiet strength in his chest, the kind warmth of his arms.

“Well, I didn’t wanna take any liberties, so...” Clint whispers back, like they’re sharing secrets now. And maybe they are, maybe they will. There’s time for all of that, Clint thinks as he holds Bruce tight and steady. There’s time, because Bruce didn’t freak out over his brashness or blunt and careless words. Bruce didn’t give him that look, that hateful, patronizing look that he still gets from people sometimes when he mentions the circus. Bruce didn’t push him away or look down on him or any of those things, so he thinks, there’s time, there’s got to be time.

“Do you want to take me to bed?” Bruce asks, still that quiet, near-silent whisper in Bruce’s susurrus of a voice.

“Well, I guess it would be a shame to have you against the wall when there is a perfectly good bed right there,” Clint speaks confidently into the warm skin of Bruce’s neck.

“ _Have_ me?” Bruce murmurs like he finds it slightly humorous. “How exactly did you want to _have_ me?”

Clint mumbles nonsense into Bruce’s chest, not answering until he’s tugged Bruce over to the bed and shoved them both onto it. “Any way you’ll let me,” he settles on, because it’s honest, and Bruce feels so good.

Clint winds up on all fours on top of Bruce, looking straight down at those gorgeous brown eyes, and then nuzzling his nose against Bruce’s cheek.

“You’re gorgeous,” Clint breathes, kissing everywhere he can think of, the corners of Bruce’s mouth, the tip of his nose, the tops of his ears, and then lightly, right on his eyelids.

Bruce kisses back as soon as he can catch Clint’s lips with his own, kissing him firmly, full on the mouth, catching his bottom lip in his and giving it the most teasing of bites before deepening the kiss and sucking gently on Clint’s tongue.

Clint moans and tries to slip the buttons free from Bruce’s shirt as Bruce suddenly wraps a leg around one of Clint’s and flips them over so that Bruce lands on top. He’s straddling Clint, one dress pants clad leg on either side of him, and if Clint wasn’t fully hard before, then he certainly is now.

“I could suck you off,” Bruce offers, ignoring the red that almost immediately floods over his face at making a suggestion like that. There’s still that underlying shyness in Bruce, but there’s also something more, something fierce in his willingness to put those words out there at all.

“Oh,” Clint pulls Bruce closer, because straddling him like that he’s too far away again, _damn it_. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Bruce’s neck, then bites gently at the expanse of warm skin above his collar, his shirt still clinging on with just three buttons still fastened. “But then I wouldn’t be able to kiss you,” he mumbles, in between sucking love bites into Bruce’s collarbone and making him squirm wonderfully on top of him.

“God, that sounds sappy, right? Sappy as fuck.” Clint stops just long enough for Bruce to move away a bit, his eyes wide and his skin flushed from his face down past where his shirt is giving a valiant try at actually staying on him. Bruce’s clothes must be used to rough treatment, Clint supposes. 

“No, it’s okay. You’re really...that’s honestly really sweet, Clint.” Bruce’s comments are only upstaged by the slick pink of his lips, bitten rosy and perfect.

“Come here, baby.” Clint can’t get enough of Bruce’s mouth on his own. Clint has always been a fan of kissing, of making out, of drawing out foreplay until they’re both practically begging for it. He can’t help that he likes to take his time, likes to find out what makes his partner gasp and moan. Bruce’s ears are particularly sensitive, he finds out as he licks along the shells of each one, pausing to nip at the lobes and feel Bruce shiver as he does.

He sneaks his fingers down Bruce’s shirt, undoing those last three unwelcome buttons and feeling the warm plane of Bruce’s chest. Bruce wasn’t built, didn’t carry a lot of weight on him, but what he had was muscle, lean and strong beneath those clothes. Clint’s hand cups the back of Bruce’s neck to bring him in again, and Bruce lets himself be manhandled, even if he is on top, lets Clint explore and map out every part that he can reach.

“Clint,” Bruce whines, and his voice sounds wrecked, and it makes Clint feel heady and sure.

He flips them over one more time, landing between Bruce’s legs, their faces close together, both panting in hot, fast breaths.

Clint pulls his shirt over his head and dives in to trail his tongue down Bruce’s now fully exposed chest.

“Clint,” Bruce moans again as Clint’s tongue reaches the top of his pants and he stops, licking his way back up again only to find a nipple to toy with.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Clint says, laying a kiss reverently in the middle of Bruce’s chest.

“Anything.”

“Oh, really? Anything? Anything, like, say, blowing you? Or maybe you’d like me to fuck you, hmm? A good, hard fuck, maybe. Or you could fuck me.”

“Anything,” Bruce agrees.

Clint wants to do all the things he mentioned and more with Bruce, but at the moment all he can think about is how Bruce will taste, how Bruce will feel, hard and slick in his mouth. Plus, he’s not sure if he’s got lube or condoms around, and he’s rather averse to the idea of moving away from Bruce to go look.

“You got it.” Clint is all confidence as he unfastens Bruce’s pants and pulls them down, along with his underwear, to free Bruce’s erection. In this, at least, he knows what he’s doing, and he wraps his lips around Bruce’s hard length and sucks, wrapping a palm around it as he bobs his head and listens in satisfaction to Bruce’s moans. Bruce, already so far gone from the way they had been rubbing up against each other, doesn’t take long before he’s quivering under Clint’s hands and mouth and gasping out his release.

“Good?” Clint asks, pleased and teasing, right before Bruce tackles him to the bed and reaches his hand down to palm at Clint’s still hard cock.

“More than good. But don’t be conceited,” Bruce says, though it’s far from admonishing. “Let me return the favor?”

“God, yes.”

Bruce’s mouth on his prick is warm and wet, and Bruce hums and moans as he takes Clint almost all the way down. Clint would be impressed if he wasn’t grasping at the sheets for purchase and trying with all his restraint not to buck up into Bruce’s mouth. One of Clint’s hands makes its way to Bruce’s mussed up hair, and it takes even more willpower not to pull. Clint whimpers and cries out Bruce’s name when he comes, happily surprised when Bruce swallows every drop and then flops down beside him on the bed to kiss him.

“Pillow talk is usually my thing,” Clint explains, already drowsy. “But after that, I can’t even think.”

“It’s okay.”

“Mm hmm,” Clint hums, not really meaning anything by it. Then he blurts out, but softly, “Stay here, okay?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Through Clint’s half-lidded eyes he can see that Bruce looks uncertain.

“Probably not? But stay anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, okay.”


	13. The Morning After

Clint wakes up when he hears a heavy thud and feels the blankets pull away from him, exposing his bare skin to the not quite chilly, yet not completely cozy air of the room. The backs of his legs prickle with gooseflesh as he peers over the edge of the bed to take in the sight of Bruce on the floor, all tangled up in blankets.

“Bruce?”

“I’m okay.”

Clint reaches down to try to help Bruce detangle, but only succeeds in tipping over the side of the bed too far and tumbling down before he can catch himself. Hey, he never claimed to be graceful at whatever god awful hour of the morning it was.

“So, I thought I’d join you. Floor’s comfortable,” Clint mumbles, because he might not be able to retain his balance at this hour, but he can still count on being a smart ass anytime.

“You’re sitting on my legs.”

“ _You’re_ comfortable.”

Together they haul themselves back up onto the bed and fix the blankets with only a modicum of difficulty. 

“So, were you trying to escape, or what?” Clint asks sleepily, spooning up against Bruce to try to regain some warmth.

“Nightmare,” Bruce explains shortly, without elaborating.

“Go back to sleep.” Clint yawns, trying to inch closer to Bruce and wrapping an arm around his middle. “No more falling off the bed, okay?”

Bruce mutters something incomprehensible and relaxes into Clint’s hold.

How much later, Clint isn’t certain, but he’s awoken by Bruce’s voice calling his name. 

“Huh?” Clint is immediately aware of feeling nearly saturated by the unsettling film of cold sweat upon him. He reaches up to swipe at his forehead with a clammy palm. “Fuck.”

“Sorry," Bruce says, sounding genuinely apologetic, which is just par for the course with him. "You were, uh, shaking. And, um...”

“Talking in my sleep?” Of course, Clint knows the answer to his question before he asks it, and curses himself inwardly.

“More like, well, _yelling_. Sorry.”

“Shit. What time is it?”

“Early still. Can you get back to sleep?” Bruce runs a nervous hand through Clint’s damp hair, presses a rapid, nearly-phantom kiss to the corner of Clint’s mouth. Clint can see the concern in his brown eyes by the low light of the bedroom. The nightmares don’t come to him every night, but maybe he should have listened to instinct and let Bruce leave after they’d finished with the more intimate parts of their evening. But no, that always struck Clint as a little cold, parting ways after sex with a partner, as if they were strangers. He always preferred to stay, if it was with someone he hoped to see again. Bruce didn’t strike him as a one-night stand kind of guy, not with the way things had been going between them. Of course there was the old doubt, lurking at the very back corner of his mind, but he had long since finished with that, hadn't he?

“Clint?”

Clint forces his thoughts to slow back down from the hive buzz they always turned into after being jolted from a bad dream. “Yeah, I’m good. Third time’s a charm, right?”

They settle back down, this time with Clint laying his head on Bruce’s chest, listening to the soft beat of his heart until his eyelids grew heavy once more.

When Clint’s alarm finally goes off at a reasonable hour, he reaches past Bruce to hit the button. Since neither of them had bothered to put any clothes back on the previous night, Clint brushes against Bruce’s nude form, skin to skin. Bruce makes a small sound and turns on his side toward Clint, wrapping their legs together beneath the blankets and drawing them together, warm and inviting.

“Good morning,” Bruce mumbles against Clint’s bare shoulder.

Clint echoes the sentiment, pulling Bruce closer until he can easily reach over to twist his fingers gently around Bruce’s curls.

“I should go soon.” Bruce sounds plaintive, like he’s looking for an excuse to do the exact opposite. He hasn’t moved his head from under his touch, allowing Clint free reign over his bedraggled locks.

Clint half wants to argue the case for them to stay in bed all day. Staying in bed all day sounds like a great plan, in fact, until he thinks of Fury sending someone to track them down. That would be beyond awkward.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Clint replies instead, focusing on the thick, dark ringlets of hair twirling round his fingers.

“Ah. Well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m not the greatest person to share a bed with.”

“Which makes two of us.” Clint wonders vaguely if they’re going to have the discussion here and now. Neither of them had been too keen to discuss sleep disruptions previously, but then that had also been the middle of the night. Clint isn’t sure how he’ll feel if Bruce does want to talk about it; it’s not something he really talks about, ever. Not even with Natasha, and they’ve shared a bed platonically enough times for it to have come up. It’s just bad luck that his brain had to go and fuck with him on the one night when he’d finally had Bruce in his bed.

Bruce only hums under his breath thoughtfully, and gingerly ducks out from under Clint’s ministrations. He snatches up his glasses from the bedside table where they’d been placed some time during the previous night and gets up to look for his clothes.

There’s a few seconds where Clint’s brain short-circuits from the sight of Bruce, naked, in the soft morning light of his bedroom. When he manages to tear his eyes away, he gets up and attempts to be helpful and hand over parts of Bruce’s discarded outfit.

Soon Bruce is dressed decently enough to wander back down the hallway to his own room, looking every bit debauched in his wrinkled shirt and pants. His shirttails aren’t tucked in for once, and his pants are riding low on his hips. Clint pulls a pair of boxers on himself, so as not to be the only naked one in the room. Before Bruce can head out the door, Clint sidles up to him and gives him an appraising look. He kind of wants to give him a little kiss goodbye, but somehow can’t quite bring himself to be quite so open. Mornings after have never really been conducive to heralds of good tidings for Clint; he doesn’t want to push his luck. 

He settles for trailing a finger along Bruce’s chin. “Scruffy,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. I’ve, uh, got to shave,” says Bruce, his voice soft and subdued, his eyes darting to follow the path of Clint’s movements.

Clint’s the first to take a step back. _What is this_ , he thinks to himself, as he gives Bruce a brief nod, and Bruce takes that as his cue to leave. Are they the kind of couple who kiss goodbye now? Are they even a couple? Clint’s made the mistake before, one too many times, of assuming too much, too soon. He doesn’t think Bruce is the type of person to fuck and forget, but what does he know? Clint sighs to himself, suddenly feeling worse for wear. He makes it to the shower, shrugs off his boxers, and turns the water on hot. He needs to _think_.


	14. Something there is that doesn't love a wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint and Bruce are protective of each other and also angst for no reason.  
> Chapter title is from Robert Frost's Mending Wall.

The next time Clint sees Bruce, he’s in Hulk mode, and there’s a building falling down around them.

Hulk pulls him out of the way as a wall comes down, and it’s a close thing, but Clint only gets covered with dust from the collapsed plaster and drywall.  


Clint coughs up a mouthful of the stuff and wipes his eyes clear the best he can. As soon as his field of vision is unimpeded, he sees the enemy, raises his bow, and shoots.

He has all of three seconds to confirm that the arrow hit its mark (of course it did, he’s _Hawkeye_ ) before he hears the explosion and another piece of the building comes down. Clint collapses in a coughing fit, dodging debris and clutching tightly at his bow.

Clint wakes up in a hospital bed in SHIELD’s too familiar medical wing. He wishes he could say that he saw the mundane, off-white paint of the walls and the sickly pale blue of the privacy curtains less often. Clint has always hated hospitals; he could never understand why a place that was supposed to make people feel better always felt so unhealthy to his better instincts.

At least his lungs are feeling better; he takes a deep breath, and even the stale air in medical is better than the way he’d felt after the explosion. He presses the call button on the rail of the hospital bed and waits for a doctor to come declare him free to go.

It takes longer than Clint would have liked (it always does), but eventually he’s allowed to leave. Not that leaving medical means immediate freedom; he’s still got to debrief before he can think of doing anything else.

It’s rare that the entire team debriefs together. They all have their own parts to play, after all, their own roles. So Clint doesn’t think anything of it when he sits down with Coulson to recount everything he can remember.

In fact, he doesn’t think much of anything at all, except that he wants a hot shower and for his head to stop pounding. Sure, they’d given him some painkillers to take, but Clint likes to use those as a last resort. It’s not him trying to be a quote-unquote tough guy, it’s just that he’d pretty much grown up without standard medical care, and taking pills for anything other than an emergency seems somehow...foreign, to him.

So he takes his shower and his head does start to feel better, enough that after he gets dressed, instead of falling onto his mattress, he makes his way down to the kitchen. He can’t remember the last time he ate anything, even if they had offered him a meal while he was waiting for clearance in medical; it wasn’t like he was going to eat that stuff.

Only, when he gets to the kitchen, and almost everyone is gathered there, huddled together over the kitchen counter and reviewing battle strategies. Clint is never quite sure why Cap likes to hold team meetings in the kitchen when they’ve got perfectly good boardrooms, but it’s not like he was going to complain. He strides over and nods to everyone sans a particular doctor, and Clint asks about him, of course. And from the look on Natasha’s face, Clint instantly knows that he isn’t going to like the answer.

“No one told you?” Tony sounds surprised. “Banner’s in isolation.”

“He’s fine,” Natasha says quickly.

Clint bites his lip and walks over to stand by the counter where he can surreptitiously grip the edge to keep himself steady if he has to.

“’Fine’ meaning what, exactly?”

So Natasha explains. The explosion had been strong, strong enough to trip up the Hulk. He’d reverted back to Bruce’s form, seemingly unharmed, but his gamma radiation levels had tested higher than normal.

“So, what now? I mean, where is he?” Clint tries not to let the alarm he was feeling seep into his voice. He would have placed a bet on not being very successful at it.

“A SHIELD holding cell. He’s not hurt,” Natasha adds, as if she could read Clint’s thoughts.

“Fine. That’s where I’ll be if anyone needs me.” Clint stalks out of the kitchen, not caring what anyone else is going to think of his behavior. All he can think of is Bruce, locked away in that holding cell, all alone. He knows it’s nothing personal—any number of the team has had to be put in isolation for one incident or another. But for Bruce—it’s a fear he knows he has, and not an unrealistic one, that he could be locked away. Clint makes his way back to SHIELD as quickly as he can.

 

Bruce is sitting on the edge of the uncomfortable plastic-covered multi-purpose bench-slash-bed in the isolation cell, watching the numbers on the radiation monitors slowly go down. He focuses on his breathing, in, out, in, out. He tries not to watch the clock hanging on the otherwise bare wall across from him. They brought him here hours ago, told him to get some rest. Steve had come to make sure he was okay. It was extra awkward, because they had to talk through the two-way speaker in the door. Bruce had wanted to ask about Clint, but instead settled on asking the more generic question of whether everyone on the team was all right. Steve had assured him that everyone else was fine, and Bruce didn’t really know what to say after that. He thought about asking for Clint, and then firmly decided against it. It wasn’t like Clint was his...well, anything, really. 

They hadn’t said anything to each other that morning when they’d parted ways, and as much as Bruce tried not to think negatively, he couldn’t help the sinking feeling that maybe Clint had been disappointed, maybe he wasn’t interested anymore.

After Steve had left, Natasha had come by. She didn’t have much to say, just that they were looking into what had caused the explosion.

Hours pass, and Bruce can’t even ask for a book to read, because it’s not safe for anyone to be in the same room with him. He tries to think about the explosion, of what he remembers, and if he can think of anything useful. Without more data, it’s impossible, so he solves equations in his head to pass the time. He tries not to think about Clint, because they had a good time, and no matter what, Clint had said they’d still be friends. Bruce wonders what kind of friendship they’ll be able to have if he’s locked in this room indefinitely, but then shoves that thought away.

Bruce is mentally willing the numbers on the monitors to drop when he hears a knock on the door, and then a familiar voice speaking through the intercom. “Bruce?”  


“Oh, hi,” Bruce says, nonchalantly, like his heart hasn’t just skipped a beat.

“Are you okay?” Clint is peering at him through the tiny window at the door. It makes Bruce feel rather like a lab specimen, and he’s never liked being on display. He tries a smile on for size, just so Clint doesn’t see him looking too miserable.

“I’m fine. My, uh, radiation levels keep dropping, so it’s a good sign.”

“Good. That’s—that’s good.”

“How are you feeling?” Bruce walks over to the door so at least they can be at eye level, and hopefully it won’t feel so odd. They’ll still be talking through the glass, but it’s something. “I think I remember a lot of walls falling down in your general vicinity.”

Clint laughs, a warm, reassuring sound. “I’m great, thanks to you, that is.”

“Oh. Well, I—I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too. I mean, I’m glad _you’re_ okay.”

Bruce smiles despite himself. “Well, thanks for coming to visit me in my cell. I’d invite you in, but there’s all this potentially deadly radiation, so.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then the intercom is crackling with the sounds of their mutual laughter.

“You’ll be all right,” Clint says, no, _promises_ , as his laughter dies down and he looks at Bruce with eyes still shining with mirth. “We’ll get you back home in no time.”

“Mmm. I think I will be.” And Bruce surprises himself when he doesn’t flinch at the word ‘home.’ For the first time in a long time, he thinks he might have one.

“We’ll go for coffee for real when you get out,” Clint says. “Or dinner. Maybe a movie?”

“Yeah?” Bruce wonders at the fact that Clint has this way of making all of his anxieties seem far away, like little specks of nothing in the distance.

“Yeah. If you still want--?”

“Of course. It’ll be...nice. I’d love to.”

The intercom nearly short-circuits when suddenly, Clint's communication device booms out loudly with the call to assemble.

“I’d kiss you goodbye, if I could,” Clint says, stepping away from the door reluctantly. He turns to go, then clearly thinks better of it as he twists back around and blows a kiss in Bruce’s direction.

Bruce turns red and shakes his head, because it’s just like Clint to do that, and he waves as Clint spins around again and scurries off down the hallway.  


When Clint is gone, Bruce touches his fingers gently to his lips and thinks of better things, things yet to come.


	15. It is a good day to do what has to be done by Bruce and help his Cupid defeat the enemys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title is based on Half-Life: Full Life Consequences. I do know how to spell enemies :) )

Three hours later, Bruce is still in isolation, even though his radiation levels have dropped considerably, hardly even registering above his normal levels. SHIELD wants to keep him a little longer for observation, however, and Bruce acquiesces.

That is, until he hears the sound of gunshots in the hallway, and Bruce jolts to his feet.

“What’s going on?” he demands at the cameras; he knows that they can hear him.

The intercom crackles in response. “The Avengers have the situation under control. It is advisable that you remain calm and return to your seat.”

Bruce has a wild moment where he instantly thinks _my team_ and _Clint_ and _trouble_ , and what he says is, “ _I’m_ an Avenger. Open the damn door.”

There is silence, and then the intercom crackles again, “It is advisable that you remain calm—“

“Remain calm?” Bruce blurts out incredulously, his strained voice talking over the speaker. “My team is out there, and that’s where I belong. It is _advisable_ that you open the door before I take matters into my own hands and open it myself.”

There is silence, and then there is the unmistakable sound of electronic locks releasing their holds.

“Thank you,” Bruce says under his breath, and steps out into the fray. He has a moment as himself to recognize HYDRA has infiltrated their base before a spray of bullets comes his way, and he transforms.

Hulk is not happy that his team, his _Cupid_ was in danger, and he was not called.

There is a lot of smashing, then, and a lot of screaming. The smashing is mostly Hulk; the screaming is mostly HYDRA.

There are arrows, too, and an archer who looks fondly at Hulk before letting those arrows fly, past him, to nab the HYDRA agents behind him.

 

*

 

After the battle, when Bruce is short and myopic and mousy again, and Nick Fury is fuming about the destruction done inside his base, and Steve and Tony are eye-fucking each other while Coulson futilely tries to get their attention, Clint finds him.

“Thought you were in lockdown,” Clint says, brushing debris off Bruce’s bare shoulders.

“I was,” Bruce agrees.

“And they just let you out?”

Bruce laughs, which turns into a cough because of the dust in the air. “You could say that I...persuaded them.”

Clint grins. “I’ll say you did. We heard you, over the comms, you know.”

“What?” If Bruce weren’t already in a sort of state of shock from the transformation, he would have gotten a lot paler at that news.

“Yeah, I dunno why it broadcast on our signal. Something to do with the interference from HYDRA, I think. But I knew you had it in you, babe.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. God, Bruce. I’m so...so damn proud of you. You have no idea. And not just me—I think Cap wants to give you a goddamn gold star or something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Listen, everyone’s all wrapped up in this mess—let’s get out of here before they catch us and go get cleaned up.”

“Shouldn’t we stay to help?”

“We’ll come back. But you’re not gonna be much help anyway, dressed like that.” Clint motioned toward him with a nod that encompassed his mostly-nudity.

“All right.”

They sneak out, successful due to Clint’s knowledge of the least-traversed paths in SHIELD, and they find themselves in the locker room. Fortunately they both have spare sets of clothing there.

“So, first things first. Shower.” Clint begins to undress, unselfconsciously.

“Okay.” Bruce really only has to let his grip fall slack on his pants, and he’s naked. He might be a little more modest in other circumstances, but there’s really no point at the present time. “Are we, uh, showering...together?”

Clint’s face lights up, bright as anything. “You want to?”

“I just—I’m so glad you’re safe,” Bruce admits.

“ _Oh_ ,” Clint says, like he’s stunned. “Bruce...I feel bad. I keep meaning to take you for coffee, or dinner, or something, because, you know—I don’t just want post-fight fucking—I mean, I want that too, I do. But I’d like more? With you. If you want.”

“Like...a couple?” Bruce hazards a guess, his heart beating fast in his chest.

“Yeah. That.”

“Okay. We can—we’ll be a couple, then.”

Clint smiles, turning on the shower and pulling them both beneath the hot water. He just holds Bruce in his arms for a few moments, and Bruce embraces him in return; they stay like that, under the shower, like somehow-chaste naked hugging. And then Clint kisses him, and everything becomes a lot less chaste.

There’s no lube, but there is conditioner, and Clint uses that to slide a finger into Bruce as they kiss, deep and hard.

“Like that?” Clint asks as he rocks his finger in and out, and Bruce moans into his mouth.

“Yeah, like that,” Bruce murmurs. “I’ll need you to fuck me soon, though. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“You got it.” Clint’s mouth is everywhere, lapping water from Bruce’s collarbones and chest with his tongue, flickering over Bruce’s nipples and trailing softly along his neck. 

“Okay, okay,” Bruce says finally, turning around to face the tiled shower wall. His soaked skin is glistening, and when he spreads his legs, Clint has to stroke himself a few times just to get a hold of his own lust. He briefly slicks Bruce up a little more, and then lines himself up, pushing in, inch by inch, until Bruce’s body is trembling beneath him, and he’s taken all of Clint inside.

“Good?” Clint asks, his lips pressed up against Bruce’s back.

“Very good.” Bruce clenches, and moans, and thrusts back, grinding against Clint. “You can move. Any time. Now would be good.”

“Right.” After that, Clint doesn’t waste any time fucking into that hot, tight space. He holds onto Bruce’s hips to get a better angle, finding the spot that makes Bruce gasp and slap his palms desperately against the shower wall, like it’s too much, too intense, too utterly perfect.

“God. _Clint_ ,” Bruce whines, and impossibly tightens up on Clint’s dick. It’s all Clint can do to keep thrusting forward, as all of his coherent thought is being wrung from him so thoroughly. Bruce just keeps _taking_ it, moving in perfect rhythm with each shove of Clint’s prick. Bruce’s legs are spread so nicely for him, his back arching so prettily, and Clint wants to fill Bruce up with his come, wants to see him take everything, wants to mark him, make him _his_.

And Bruce is his, isn’t he? And Clint belongs to Bruce, too—and it’s that thought, that hopelessly romantic thought that almost brings Clint over the edge. Before he lets himself, he reaches for Bruce, begging him to come for him, because Clint needs to come so badly, but he really wants to make this good for Bruce, wants to feel him come with Clint’s dick inside him.

And Bruce, always so obliging, always so agreeable, spasms in his hand, shaking and quivering and spurting hot over the shower wall. And the way Bruce tightens up, gasping out Clint’s name and giving into his release—it’s enough to push Clint over the edge, and he comes inside Bruce’s tight perfect ass.

Clint waits as long as he can before he has to pull out. When he does, he turns Bruce around and kisses him sloppily, almost giddily, because they’re alive, and they’re together, and there’s something a little more than sex and friendship between them, something protective and kind and whole, something that could turn into something more, because they’ve given each other a chance, and that’s all the universe needs to create something beautiful sometimes—just a chance. Just one chance, two people saying _yes, let’s have a go at it_ , and _yes, we can give this a try_ , and _yes, we were alone, but we don’t have to be._

 _We don’t have to be_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who left me comments or kudos on this fic! I appreciated every single one! This fic is done, I think the resolution is pretty successful, actually, because while I know the boys never actually got their date, I think that fits pretty well with this narrative, and what I felt was more important for me to show was Bruce's inclusion in the team, and the resolution of Clint and Bruce deciding that they are something to each other, even if they're still figuring each other out. And I wanted to give them both a chance to sort of be protective of and save each other, because I think that they have that dynamic a lot, of constantly looking out for one another and making sure the other is safe. Anyway, that's enough of my headcanon. I certainly hope you enjoyed this fic. I'm done with this particular Bruce/Clint story, but I'm sure I'll have more on the way soon enough. Depending on how far this fic is from canon, once I see the movie, I may do a sequel, or I may just start something new. Who knows :)


End file.
